Come to the Edge
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: Three years later Sherlock returns to only to find everything is different, especially John. Perhaps the only way to repair their friendship is to turn it into something more.  Eventual Sherlock/John. Spoilers for series 1 and 2.
1. Chapter 1

Update - No idea where this story went or what happened to it but here we go again. To the small group of you who reviewed it before it left the premises, thank you. I have no idea what you said so I can't respond, but thanks. I'm sorry. :o)

Author's Note/Warnings – This takes place three years after the episode The Reichenbach Fall and there are spoilers for that episode to follow. There are also references to the rest of the series, including series 2. If you don't want to know what happens, don't read this. This will also eventually be a slash story between John and Sherlock, there will be adult interactions. If you don't like that skip it. Other than that, hopefully you will enjoy it. This is generally separate from the vague universe I've created with my other stories so it will not tie to them in anyway. The title is taken from a poem by Christopher Logue. It's a great poem, has the same title. Read it now.

Disclaimer – I own very little, but you can have it if you want it.

Once again thanks to ScopesMonkey for being my beta, my cheerleader, and my friend. Trust me, without her things like this would never see the light of day.

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><p><span>Come to the Edge...<span>

"Dr. Watson?"

John didn't turn his head, keeping his attention on the granite table in front of him. It was clearly one slab of rock and was too big for the small conference room. It had obviously been very expensive.

"Are we boring you, Dr. Watson?"

John looked up at that, eyeing the man across the table from him. He was Scottish, from Glasgow if John had to guess. He was wiry thin, too tall, too young. John hated him - for no good reason really. The man was just doing his job. Mary was sat next to him. Mary, beautiful, beautiful Mary. That should have been the first clue that this wasn't going to work. Mary was entirely too beautiful for him.

"Yes," he answered honestly. "I don't particularly want to do this." He sighed and the wiry Scot opened his mouth. John held up his hand, cutting him off. "I know it's necessary." John looked at the document in front of him, glancing over the list, but couldn't immediately figure out what item they were on. He looked up, glanced at the wiry Scot then at his own solicitor.

"The china," Mary said, pointing at the list. Her voice was quiet, as if telling John a secret. He saw concern in her eyes. She always worried about him, it was probably the reason that she'd stuck with him this long. John was somebody she could help, she could fix. She loved to take care of things.

"The china that was a wedding present from my client's mother," said the wiry Scot. John just shook his head. He remembered walking through the store, looking at countless plates and saucers. He hadn't cared, not even a little. But he'd gone along because it had been so important to Mary. He remembered the look her face when she stumbled upon the plates with the small purple flowers and the vines trailing across the edges. She'd been delighted, she'd loved them. John had happily agreed.

"They're estimated at–" John's own solicitor began. Everything had to be equal, everything had to balance out.

"She can have them," John interrupted, picking up his pen and making a note on the list. It didn't mean anything; he just wanted something to do with his hands.

"And in return?" her solicitor asked. John just shook his head. He met Mary's eyes, still seeing the concern there. She had her hair pulled back, a pony tail resting at the base of her skull. She was so pretty when it was down.

"She can have them all outright. She always loved them." He remembered watching her take the set out of the cabinet for Christmas and for birthdays, meticulously cleaning what would be used and setting them out with pride. "I don't want them."

He looked back down at the list, the next item was the dining room set. That had been another wedding present but he couldn't remember from whom. They'd eaten hundreds of meals at the table, together in the beginning, alone towards the end. They'd had sex on it once, a silly afternoon romp that Mary had giggled through. Almost every night afterwards, he'd seen the sweet knowing smile cross her face as she wiped the table down.

The memory made him smile and he looked at Mary again. He could see the look in those warm brown eyes, she was remembering the same thing. For a split second his heart ached, but it was dull and faded quickly. It was far too late.

"She can have it," he said. He looked at Mary, the concern was back. Mary, always worried. John offered her a smile and hoped it showed that he was fine, that she didn't need to worry about him anymore. He'd be all right. Her look didn't change and something sank in his chest. He looked back at the list.

He nodded again, deciding, and pushed the paper away. He looked at his solicitor, the small man who Harry swore was great at his job and wouldn't try to be ruthless. John had no complaints really, other than the fact that the man had no personality and couldn't understand a joke.

"John," Mary said, seeing something in him. He looked at her, smiled, and stood up.

"You can have it, Mary. You can have all of it, you deserve all of it." He looked back at his solicitor, the poor man appeared on the verge of a coronary. "Mr. Hamilton. I'm sorry, I know that you've been trying to do what's best for me. I just," he met every face in the room, "can't do this anymore. I was crap as a husband. She deserves better."

"John," Mary said again, standing this time. She reached across the table, an aborted gesture to connect with him. He smiled at the pale, perfectly manicured hand lying against the dark granite.

"It's fine, Mary. I have my clothes and my few personal items. I can get a new flat, or maybe move out of London. I've been thinking about that. Don't worry about me." He offered a hand to her solicitor who looked as if he'd won some sort of lottery. The wiry Scot stood as he shook it.

His solicitor had stood and John shook his hand as well. He looked back at Mary. "I'm sorry," he said, holding her eyes for just a moment before turning and pushing the glass door open, heading towards the lifts. He stared up at the counter, vaguely noting how many floor were between him and the lift. He was ready to go, the anxiousness to get out of the building itching just underneath his skin.

He got that feeling a lot now, the itch to go, to do something. He always half expected the feeling to dissipate, but it never had. He hated it, hated the way it made him feel. Therapy certainly hadn't eliminated it. He'd stopped going a year ago. Another two years wasted in a room with that woman. That had probably been the beginning of the end of his marriage. No, that was wrong - getting married had been the beginning of the end of his marriage.

He never should have done it. Mary had certainly deserved better.

"John?" He turned toward the familiar voice and watched as Mary closed the distance between them. She was looking worried still, and she reached out to touch his upper arm. "You don't have to do this. I don't need it all. We can sell it."

John brought his arm up and placed a hand on her waist. "No," he smiled. "Keep it. Or if you want to, sell it. You like it all, loved some of it. It's okay, really. I'll be fine."

She shook her head and brought her other hand up to cup his cheek, "I don't think you've been fine the entire time I've known you." She frowned, sympathy apparent in her fine features. She leaned over and placed a kiss on his cheek. He smelled her, that slightly sweet scent that was so beautifully Mary. He ached for her again, missed her. But he'd never really had her.

She pulled back as the lift door opened. "Please call me," she said. "If you need anything John, anything. I'll happily give you some-" she paused. She was going to say money, John knew. At times it had been a point of contention between them. He had none, except what he earned, and she had tons, plus what she earned. She took another step back and nodded. "Please just call me if you need anything. Please."

"I will," he lied and stepped into the lift. Mary stood in front of the doors as they closed and they watched each other. John waited until the car started to descend to lean back against the wall, close his eyes, and let the weight of his failure sink in.

In a flash he thought of Sherlock and pushed it away. He couldn't blame this on Sherlock's death. It had been three years, three long and horrible years. His marriage had nothing to do with Sherlock. When the doors opened he stepped through the lobby and out onto the street. It was a beautiful day, an absolutely beautiful day. John took a deep breath and walked away.

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><p>John smiled at the kid behind the counter, Mark, who grinned back and moved out of the way as John grabbed a styrofoam cup and poured himself some coffee. He selected one of the blueberry pastries from the display and sat down.<p>

"How're your studies going?" he asked and the younger man smiled.

"Good. I'm thinking about applying to a program to do post-graduate work at M.I.T. in America." John nodded.

"That'd be exciting."

Mark smiled again as he wiped down the counter by the register. John took a sip of the coffee and watched the young man work.

Mrs. Hudson had hired him a year ago when she bought the café. She said it was because he reminded her of Sherlock. John didn't see it. Mark was incredibly intelligent, far above average, but not at the genius level by any means. Yes, he was tall and thin with dark curly hair, but he was clumsy and awkward in his body. Sherlock had never been that way. Every single one of the detective's movements had been smooth, thought out. John didn't know if Sherlock had been awkward when he'd been younger, but he didn't see Mark growing into himself. He had the look of a stumbling adult already. But he made Mrs. Hudson happy, and that made John happy, or as close to it as he got these days.

"Mark, dear," came a voice from the back of the store. John smiled, feeling a swell of warmth for the first time days. "I need you to run– JOHN!" A huge grin spread across her face as she spotted him and he stood. He placed a kiss in her hair as she wrapped her arms around him and held tightly.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," he said, enjoying the familiarity of her. He saw her frequently but he missed her every day presence, more than he could say, especially now. She pulled back after a second and offered him a quick smile and a pat on the bum before turning back to Mark.

"Dear, can you run up to Tesco for me?" She handed him a piece of paper that he took with a nodded. He pulled his apron off and was out the door in a second. John smiled, watching him amble down the street. He sat back in his chair and Mrs. Hudson sat across from him.

They stayed silent for a long few minutes, John slowly sipping his coffee. He could feel Mrs. Hudson sneaking glances at him, wanting to ask, but not knowing if the questions would be welcome.

"I let her have everything," John said after a minute. He looked over at Mrs. Hudson and watched the shock at being figured out and the shock at what he'd said sink in. He smiled at her, picking up the pastry and taking a bite. "I didn't need any of it or really want any of it. If she can find a bit of happiness in it then she should have it. She deserves that. She deserves to be happy."

"So do you," Mrs. Hudson snapped. Her voice was unusually fierce. "So do you, John. So do you." She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. "I thought you might find that with her. She's such a sweet girl."

John nodded, feeling a slight constricting in his throat. He looked away, for just a second, and then back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "Is your hip doing any better?" She eyed him for a moment and nodded.

"Yes, I've been resting as both my doctor and you suggested."

"Good," he said. "It's important that you listen to your doctor, and to me. We care about you." He stood to get some more coffee.

"You shouldn't drink so much of that stuff. It isn't good for you." He continued to pour it and took another sip. "You should listen to me," she said eyeing him across the counter. "I care about you."

He looked at her for a minute, smiled, and sat the cup down. He walked back around the counter and leaned down to give her a kiss. "I have to get to work. I'll call you tomorrow." He took a step towards the door when her voice filled the small space again.

"You can always move back in upstairs," she said. The words hung awkwardly between them for a minute. He swallowed and turned back to look at her, shaking his head, throat tightening at the thought. He hadn't been in the flat in years, since the funeral. He couldn't bring himself to. "You can't stay in that tiny place forever, John. It isn't healthy."

He shook his head again and looked away, staring out the window, across Baker Street. He'd looked at the same view countless times when he'd been on the flat above them. It hadn't changed at all. He missed it but he couldn't live here again. It was too much. "I can't," he said. He looked back at her, opened his mouth and then closed it again. He shook his head and walked out the door.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson stood at the window, watching John leave. She missed him - not just seeing him every day, but the man he used to be. She'd lost both of her boys to the same tragedy, one of them physically and the other in every other way.<p>

She'd hoped Mary would help with that, but it had been an unrealistic expectation. Her heart ached for him. He walked out of her view and she watched for just another second before turning and heading to the back of the store.

She heard the bell above the door ring as she opened a cabinet to remove some supplies. "Just a minute," she called out and set the items on the counter. She wiped her hands together as she walked out of the backroom and looked up. "How can I help–" She stopped, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of her, then took a step towards him, a hand reaching out. Another step and her knee gave way; she hit the floor and managed to look up as the man moved to stand above her.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he said, the concern apparent. She stared at him for just a second before the world went black and she fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked into the flat, the unfamiliar feeling of nostalgia sweeping over him. So much of it was the same, the wallpaper, most of the furniture, the sounds. It smelled similar, almost like he remembered it but not quite, not enough that it was immediately recognisable. He wondered vaguely if that was because it had been vacant, or if his mind had tainted the memory, sweetening it. One of the chairs was gone, the one that had, by default, been his. He was surprised that John had chosen that one instead of the one that he'd always occupied.

_Sentiment, _Sherlock thought and it caused a surprising sensation in his chest. After three years he was more than familiar with the previously annoying emotion. He'd missed Baker Street almost as much as he'd missed the people. He hadn't been able to properly prepare to leave this place; it had all been sudden, more sudden than he liked to remember.

He brushed his fingers along the back of the remaining chair, the sensation bringing to mind countless occasions of John sat there. Of John laughing. Of John criticising him. Of John simply being John. Of Mrs. Hudson bringing them cakes and all of them eating together. Sherlock had missed it, all of it.

He passed through to the kitchen, opening cabinets to find that there was very little left. A small collection of plates and glasses but that was all. He frowned, walking down the small hall to his bedroom. The bed was there, covered only in a sheet. Everything else that made up his life up to that point was gone. It felt odd, and empty.

He walked slowly up the stairs, entering in to the room that had been John's. It too was silent and cold. There was none of the military neatness or random items that he didn't understand. There was nothing. John was gone.

That realisation more than anything else explained the uncomfortable sensations Sherlock felt in the flat. John was gone. It had been home, with John. And without John, he didn't think it would ever be home again.

Suddenly the flat was entirely too cold and too dark. Sherlock walked slowly back down the stairs, a tight sensation in his chest, as if the walls were closing in around him. In a flash he regretted returning - he should have stayed away, it would have been easier.

Easier for everyone except him and he was nothing if not selfish. The past three years had been horrible, lonely. Before John he never would have believed he could be lonely.

Sherlock climbed into the remaining chair. It was too small for him to adequately curl up in. That was why this had always been John's chair. He'd manage though. He tucked his legs up, turning slightly, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

His appointment at the surgery wasn't until that afternoon so he had plenty of time. And he was certain that Mrs. Hudson would be coming up to see him again.

* * *

><p>John ran his finger across the silver picture frame on his desk. The photo was of him and Mary sitting on a bench in New York on their honeymoon. She'd been kissing his cheek and he held out his hand to take the picture. It had been a good trip, he'd been happy then. Or close to it.<p>

He wondered why that feeling hadn't lasted. There was no obvious reason. He traced over it one more time, his finger lingering on Mary's cheek for just a second. "I'm sorry," he mumbled partly to the picture of her and partly to himself. He shook his head, grabbed the picture and tossed it into the bottom drawer of his desk. God only knew how long it would be in there before he dug it out. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much.

He planted his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his palms. "Jesus, John," he muttered. "Get it together." _It's been three years,_ he added mentally. He sighed again, shook his head and stood. He had a patient in ten minutes. Haggard and depressed was hardly the right impression to make. John walked to the small window and looked down at the street, thinking about what Mrs. Hudson had said to him that morning. He did have to make some changes. He needed to find a place to live. Somewhere that would feel like home. He hadn't had a home since Baker Street.

He leaned his head against the window, the glass cool against his forehead. _It shouldn't be this hard,_ he thought and straightened at a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said and turned just as Nicole, the receptionist, walked into the room. She smiled at him, sympathetic. Everyone knew he was going through a divorce, everyone was quietly supportive. He hated it, he hated that these people knew anything about him. He managed a half-smile in return and reached out for the file that she was holding.

"He's a new patient," she said. "He just registered at the surgery last week. It seems he's interested in just a general physical examination, there's nothing wrong." John nodded and opened the file. It was unusual that he was getting one of the new patients. They had house officers for that. He had a fairly established patient base.

As if reading his mind Nicole explained. "He requested you specifically but didn't leave a reference on the patient information sheet." She pointed at the bottom section of the form in front of him. There was a neatly written "Not Applicable". John just nodded. "I thought perhaps you knew him."

John looked at the name again, Crispin Isles. He sorted through his memory and came up with nothing.

"No," he shook his head. "I don't think so." He thought a moment longer and was almost certain. "It doesn't matter though." He closed the file and looked at Nicole. She offered another sympathetic smile..

"Please let me know if I can do anything for you, Dr. Watson." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. One of the nurses, an older woman named Nancy, insisted on bringing John a collection of throwaway plastic containers full of food every time she worked. Not that he didn't appreciate the gesture or having food to eat, but he was tired of it. Tired of going through it, tired of being reminded of it.

"I'm fine, Nicole." He let a hint of finality enter his voice and hoped that she'd get the hint, based on the slight nod and tightening of her lip. She didn't. He almost groaned, but instead headed toward the door. He heard the slight click of her heels on the floor as she followed him and he held the door open for her. She walked passed without looking at him, but whispered the room number to him.

"Thank you," John replied. He walked down the short hall, running the name over in his head. Crispin Isles. He was certain he didn't know it. He knocked on the door, grabbing the chart that had been placed there, and stepped inside.

He glanced at the patient, noted the blonde hair with a slight red tint, the long back, skinny frame, and then he looked back down at the file. "Hello, Mr. Isles, I'm Dr. John Watson." He rounded the table, stared at something on the chart and made a quick note in the file before he looked up.

The chart clattered to the floor.

"Hello John."

John took a step back and then another. His lower back hit the cabinet on the far side of the room. "Wha- I don't- What?" He paused, his throat and chest constricting. He couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, tried to gasp, tried to inhale. He couldn't. John curled his fingers around the edge of the counter and the edges of his vision went black. He was suffocating. He choked a breath but it wasn't enough.

"Sher-," he gasped. His legs wobbled underneath him and John locked his knees, forcing his body to stay up. "Sher-," he tried again watching the man in front of him stand. The smug smile - that so familiar smug smile - fading slightly as Sherlock made his way across the small space.

"John?" A long bony hand reached out. And John shrivelled away from it, moving to the corner.

"Sherlock?" he got the word out in a flash, managing to turn around just in time. Sherlock took a giant step backwards as John got violently ill in the sink. He planted his elbows on the counter and coughed in a breath. He felt the man next to him, felt the overwhelming presence that had always been Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," he said into the sink, the sound coming back to him in an odd echo. "Sherlock."

"Yes, John. I'm here." The voice was so familiar, so warm, so Sherlock.

John spit then managed to turn on the water. His hand shook as he tried to bring water to his mouth. He tried again and then gave up, turning his head, drinking right from the tap. He drank until his throat hurt and then moved back to his elbows - none of his muscles feeling strong enough to hold him up.

"You look as if you've just seen a ghost," he heard. John replayed the words once, afraid for a moment to turn around. Then he laughed - despite it all he laughed. It bellowed out of him, shaking his whole body.

He felt Sherlock take a step back, confused. It made John laugh harder.

"Holy shit," he said, turning his head and looking at the tall, awkwardly blonde man next to him. "Holy fucking shit." He chuckled again.

Sherlock had aged - John could see tiny signs of it around the steely grey eyes and the lips. The blonde hair looked odd on him, wrong. It took away some the mystique, some of the chic.

John laughed again. Feeling a wave of something - joy maybe, or euphoria. There was a voice in the back of his head cautioning him. It wasn't right, he knew that. He knew there was a problem, that it wasn't over. He found that he didn't care. He stood in a swift movement and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. The tall body buckled slightly at the sudden weight but didn't collapse.

"Thank God," John said, his words lost between shoulder and neck. "Thank God. Thank God. Thank God." He tightened his grip.

Sherlock relaxed against him and gave an annoyed sigh. They stood together for a long time.

"I assure you, John, that the imaginary deity of which you speak has nothing to do with my being here today."

John chuckled again and pulled back. He looked him over again, his cheeks hurting because of the smile on his face.

"How?" he began. "How? What? When?"

Sherlock smiled at him, looking around the small room and nodded towards the door. "Perhaps this would be easier to discuss in your office?"

John nodded, walking to the door and feeling Sherlock fall into step behind him. It felt amazing, it was amazing. But there was another twinge of doubt riding up his spine. He tried to push it away as they reached his office.

John sat at his desk and Sherlock settled in one of the patient chairs, one long leg draping over the other. They sat in silence for a moment, the doubt growing in John. He tried to push it away again, tried to hide it.

Sherlock looked away for a moment, the smug smile returning. _About to perform his parlour trick, _John thought and it surprised him. It was accurate though, he knew. Sherlock was about to reveal his secrets, the knowledge that no one else had.

_He's alive_, John though. _Sherlock's alive. It's what I asked for, what I wished for. _The reality of it still evaded him, it was a crazy haze, his emotions oscillating.

Memories of the cemetery came back to him, of asking Sherlock to perform one last miracle, just for him. Asking Sherlock to not be dead, just for him.

And here he was. _Three years later. _

"It's good to see you, John." The grey eyes lit up, genuine happiness there. That wasn't Sherlock the mad genius or Sherlock the snarky detective. That was Sherlock his friend. _Three years. _

"Sherlock," John said, shaking his head. He hoped like hell that one word would convey at least half of what he was feeling. "Sherlock," he repeated. Just in case.

There was another smile on the detective's face and there was an odd twisting in John's stomach. His mind immediately connected the sensation to Mary, and then rewired. John allowed himself to enjoy it.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, took a deep breath, and John knew the instant before he began to speak that the explanation was coming.

"The how is simple enough." He held up his hand and shrugged his shoulders. "I distracted you, used the bike to knock you over, and the crowd to prevent you from getting too close. Molly helped with the details."

_Molly, _John thought. _Why Molly? He'd seen Molly. She'd been at the funeral. Why hadn't she said? Why hadn't she shared with him? She probably loved having information that he didn't have. She loved knowing that Sherlock was alive while John mourned. _

The unpleasant feeling grew but John kept the smile plastered on his face.

"Where? I've been all over really. Weeding out Moriarty's minions, clearing my name. I haven't been completely successful. Why? There are multiple whys. Shall we start with why I did this?" The face grew serious for a moment and John felt a sinking inside. "Obvious. So that no one would look for me. I was free to move about and destroy the web he created. Why have I come back?" There was something else in the grey eyes, something John didn't recognise, but something he liked. "It seemed like the appropriate time. I've done all the damage I can do from underground. It seems like the time to make my triumphant return. To consider going public and to clear my name." John felt his smile fade. Felt the unpleasantness inside of him make a dent in the euphoria.

He shook his head, holding out his arms, settling back in the chair. "But how? How did you live? How did you support yourself?"

Sherlock turned his head to the other side, the answer was clearly supposed to be obvious.

_He's right here. He's right bloody here. Sherlock Holmes. _

"Mycroft, of course." John's euphoria imploded, sank away into nothing.

"Mycroft?" he spat, feeling his face contort with disgust. "Mycroft? He betrayed you! He gave Moriarty all the information on you. For Queen and country or some rubbish like that! It was his fault that Moriarty had all that information!"

Sherlock eyed him curiously. "I know that. I always knew that he would. He's Mycroft."

"And he knew?" John asked. "He knew you were alive and you let me-" He trailed off. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, then stood and moved back towards the window. He heard shifting in the chair behind him. "He knew?" John repeated, mostly to himself.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "I needed financial support." John nodded, staring down at the street.

"So basically everyone but me?" The voice was quiet.

"Hardly, John. Mycroft and Molly scarcely make up 'everyone'. I apologise for the deception, but it _was_ necessary." John nodded again. He took a deep breath and turned around. There was another flash of shock at seeing the blonde hair. Sherlock was not a blonde, he didn't look good as a blonde.

"I could have helped you, Sherlock. I could have –" Sherlock was shaking his head with a look John couldn't immediately place on his face. Fear, perhaps.

"You were the person closest to me, John. If Moriarty had people watching, they would have been watching you. It was imperative that you believe I was dead. And it was easier to travel alone, make the connections alone."

John stared at him a minute, watched the grey eyes. It was that simple for Sherlock. That clear.

"I was the person closest to you and you couldn't trust me." Sherlock sat back in the chair, his face showing true confusion.

"John?" John held up his hand cutting Sherlock off. He looked to the floor and shook his head, throat tightening.

"I-" he started, swallowing past the lump. "I don't know. I- just- I don't." He looked at Sherlock. _Sherlock, _sitting in front of him. It was too much. Molly, Mycroft, and bloody fucking Sherlock.

"I can't believe you're here. I can't beleive any of it. I don't-" He trailed off, losing the thought. It was too much.

"I have to go," he said. Sherlock looked alarmed, pushing himself from his chair. John moved past him, grabbing his coat from the rack by the door. He heard Sherlock move behind him, heard the familiar footsteps, felt the familiar presence.

It was too much.

"Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, his hand on the door, suddenly remembering his conversation from that morning.

"This morning," Sherlock said. "She said I entered not long after you left."

John turned and looked at Sherlock over his shoulder. "So," he said, "I was the person closest to you and I'm not even the first person you come to when you reveal yourself." Sherlock took a step towards him.

"John-"

"How long have you been here, Sherlock? When did you decide it was time? How was I good enough to watch you die? I was good enough to be the last person you talked to, but then- I guess I really wasn't that either, was I?" John paused, looked towards the floor, and shook his head. "What you said to me-" he paused, meeting the grey eyes again. "What you said to me that day? I didn't believe you. I knew you were lying." Something in the grey eyes flared, remembering the conversation too. "Maybe," John's voice caught, "I was wrong."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - Hope everyone had a wonderful Valentine's day. Thanks as always to ScopesMonkey.

Sherlock pulled himself up the stairs, arms aching. He'd known John would be angry - John was angry often. But the pain, he hadn't been prepared for John to be hurt. John always understood. He might not agree, but he always understood.

Not this time though. This was too much for John Watson.

Sherlock pushed open the door to what had once been John's room. Baker Street felt ugly, it felt wrong, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. He certainly wouldn't go to Mycroft. No one else knew yet nor was he ready to tell anyone. He couldn't tell anyone else, not if John didn't understand.

He curled up on the bed, a strange bed, one he'd never been in before. John knew it though, John had slept there for months.

Sherlock had followed the blog, of course. Read it daily actually. On days when there was no new entry, he would scour the older ones, recalling adventures, admiring the pictures. And when there was a new entry he'd devour it, learning more about his friend and his life. Sometimes it filled the holes and sometimes it made them deeper. Mycroft, in their rare conversations, had provided snippets of information. John avoided Mycroft, didn't answer his phone calls or emails. And much to Sherlock's surprise Mycroft seemed to accept that from John, honouring some unasked request to leave John alone.

Sherlock knew the little that Mycroft knew came from Lestrade. And knowing Lestrade he wasn't sharing everything.

_He's met a woman, Mary Christianson. Greg says he seems serious about her. _

Sherlock had felt a long forgotten pang when he'd heard that. He'd felt it once at the Chinese circus when he'd stood between John and Sarah. And he felt it on the nights when he'd lay in his bed and listen to the giggles and moans come from the room above him. From this room.

He often wondered when it had happened, when he stopped worrying about John's women and when they'd stopped coming around. The subtle changes had gone unnoticed, even by him. Most of them anyway; John's concerned attitude about Sherlock's reputation had always confused him. He often recalled the eavesdropped conversation between John and The Woman. Had he and John been a couple and neither of them had realised it.

_Her father is the owner of the Christianson Group, the financial advising firm. I met him once at a reception. He's Swedish, but respectable. I believe I met Mary as well, she was quite beautiful and very, very wealthy. Does a lot of philanthropic work, right up John's street I'd suspect. _

They'd been sitting at a café in Budapest and he'd known Mycroft was watching his every reaction so he'd done his best to suppress them. He'd been jealous though, it had ached through his chest. It was ridiculous, he knew. He was dead - at least as far as John thought. It was unreasonable to expect him not to move on.

It wasn't as if anything had ever occurred between them. Sherlock had been unaware of the emotions at the time. Even if he'd known, he would simply have ignored them. He didn't do that, after all. And John would have understood. He was John, he always understood. But three years, mostly alone, was a long time. It had given Sherlock the opportunity to realise a lot about his previous life.

And John had met Mary.

Sherlock had looked at the pictures on John's blog, eyed the beautiful woman with the easy smile, and been able to see how much she loved John. John had always been smiling, always having fun. Sherlock ignored the pictures where there was doubt in the blue eyes, or sadness. It was just a bad photograph or an ill-timed moment. John had declared his happiness repeatedly through his blog entries, none of his other women had ever warranted so many mentions before. And the simple John smile had been apparent in the engagement and wedding photos. Sherlock had stared at the pictures in his small hotel room in Johannesburg and put his faith in Mary Christianson, trusted her with John, and hoped that she'd make him happy.

The selflessness had surprised him, but it shouldn't have. All of it was for John. It had been, probably since the pool, since he'd realised he had a weakness. Since he realised he had a friend, a genuine ally.

The happiness seemed to continue after the wedding. John's blog entries often contained light-hearted anecdotes and silly messages. Sherlock would read Mary's comments, noting the easy humour that the two of them seemed to share, gentle jabs traded back and forth. Sherlock had felt both jealousy and genuine happiness that his friend, his John, was content.

That happiness had been gone when he'd seen John at the surgery.

"Sherlock?" The quiet voice came from the stairs. Sherlock unfurled and sat up as Mrs. Hudson came in. She had plate of food and a plastic bag with her.

"Eat something, dear," she said, handing him the plate. He took it, recognising her potroast, and he smiled at her. She sat on the bed next to him as he ate, savouring the warmth it brought him. She eyed him in that motherly way she so often adopted and counted his bites.

"Did you see John?" she asked after several minute. Her voice was quiet as if she anticipated the unpleasantness. He nodded, took one last bite and set the plate on the small table next to the bed. He huffed and nodded.

"He is not pleased."

She smiled and placed a hand on his thigh. She didn't seem surprised. "He was devastated after you died, Sherlock. He hasn't been the same, not entirely since then."

Sherlock looked at her, confused. "It's been three years. Based on his blog, he's happy. He's married. I understand the anger—"

"He isn't married anymore," Mrs. Hudson said quietly and Sherlock stopped short. There had been nothing on the blog, he'd heard nothing from Mycroft. He felt his brow furrow, he didn't believe her. There was a flash of something in his chest, he didn't know what, but suspected that he should feel guilty for it. He tried to grab onto the sensation, categorise it, but it eluded him. There was silence for a second. She tilted her head to one side and looked towards the floor. "Well technically he's still married, but not for much longer." She met his eyes again. "They had a meeting this morning actually, to divide up the belongings and such. He-" she shook her head again another look of pain appearing in her eyes, "He let her have everything. Just so it would be over."

Sherlock stiffened, pulling back from her. "She's being difficult-"

"No," Mrs. Hudson said. "Not at all. Mary is- Mary is a saint actually. I think that was part of it. John feels like he let her down, that he was a bad husband."

"I fail to believe that John-"

"He isn't the man that you knew, Sherlock. He's different. At first I thought it was just because you were gone, I thought he was mourning. But as you said, it's been three years. He still isn't better. He's almost," she stopped for a minute, looking past him, at the wall. She struggled for a word, and nodded as she settled on one, "lost."

"It was necessary," he said. "I had no other choice." _They were going to kill you. They were going to kill Lestrade. They were going to kill…John. John. My John. _

She smiled at him. "I'm sure it was, dear." She patted his leg. "I'm sure it will just take time. He'll come around. He's missed you too much not to. You have to understand, Sherlock, after the funeral he couldn't even come into the flat. He'd hyperventilate and panic. When he left, Harry, Mike Stamford, Bill Murray and that lovely Inspector Lestrade had to be the ones to remove his belongings. He sat on the curb across the street and watched them."

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously again; that didn't sound like John. John was sure, strong.

"He was broken, like a puzzle always with a piece missing. When he finds it, it's only to realise that another one is gone. I don't think it was just your death, it was witnessing it. He said he talked to you just before, that you lied to him. He didn't understand why." Sherlock nodded, that was true, though a necessary deception. He'd wanted John to hate him, to be angry.

"Also, he couldn't handle the criticism of you. He believed in you so strongly, but couldn't mount an argument to support you. You weren't here to help him and he felt alone in his faith." She squeezed his thigh again. "You're being alive doesn't suddenly alleviate all that confusion. You need to talk to him, perhaps explain why."

_Explain everything, _he thought, although it wasn't entirely possible. He wasn't sure he was willing to admit his weakness, even to John. Especially if John was so obviously not interested.

"Mary said he has nightmares about falling." Sherlock cringed. John had nightmares about watching friends die in Afghanistan, of course he would have nightmares about Sherlock's fall. That was something he hadn't considered.

"Idiot," he mumbled, slamming his palm into his forehead.

He stood in a flash, striding towards the door, then stopped and turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "Where is he living?" Sherlock asked. "John," he clarified in case there was confusion. He could go to Mycroft if he had to but that would take time. Mrs. Hudson would know right now, but she might be reluctant to share.

She just smiled at him, a knowing, smile. He frowned, suddenly feeling manipulated. "Before I tell you, dear, I must ask you to do something for me." He straightened, glaring down at her.

"Time could be of the essence here Mrs. Hudson." He did not really think that John would harm himself, but he had an overpowering urge to see the doctor, to try and explain further.

"No problem, dear, it will only take half an hour. I'll help you." She opened the plastic bag she'd come in with and pulled out a box. She held it out to him, there was a woman on the cover, smiling. She had dark hair.

"Blonde doesn't suit you, Sherlock, honestly."

* * *

><p>He stood across the street, between two buildings, the odd perfume smell of the hair dye still floating around him. He sniffled, trying to remove the scent from his nose with no success. He stared at the window. He could see movement behind the curtain. Mrs. Hudson had told him the flat was small and in a 'hardly decent' area. Sherlock had still not been prepared.<p>

When he'd realised the address was in Shadwell, he'd been shocked. South London, why was John in South London? The neighbourhood was hardly as bad as Mrs. Hudson had described. Clearly it was lower income, but it was mostly immigrant populations. There were children playing, in the small courtyard behind him, but overall the neighbourhood seemed relatively quiet and, while poor, decent. He was not surprised to find that Mrs. Hudson had been uncomfortable though.

He saw the blue glow in the window when John turned on the telly and he wondered vaguely which of the horrible shows he was watching. Sherlock had travelled the world and often found himself watching those same shows and thinking about John.

John, his John, his only friend. The only person who'd really mourned him. Mrs. Hudson had been sad, he had no doubt. And Lestrade as well, but the loss had only deeply affected John. Perhaps that was why he had suffered so much, he was the only one to carry the weight.

He grabbed the bag at his feet and quickly strode across the courtyard. He'd decided on Chinese, the meal they'd eaten their first night together, after John had killed the cabbie. It seemed oddly sentimental, but also right. He thought John might appreciate the gesture.

He stood at the door and considered ringing the bell, but decided against it. There weren't names on any of the other buzzers so he could not be sure of who he was ringing if he tried to get the occupant of another flat to open the door.

He was just leaning over to examine the electronic locking mechanism when he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. He backed up few steps and waited for the door to open. The small black woman who came out kindly held the door for him, since his hands were full, as he made his way inside. He smiled innocently at her as she turned to walk away.

_Too easy, _he thought looking for a lift. He didn't see one and eyed the stairs. He wondered if John climbed six flights of stairs every day but shook it off and started up. There were bars on all of the doors surrounding John's, but not on John's. Sherlock frowned, wondering if his quick assessment of the neighbourhood had been incorrect, and he wondered why John did not have the extra security. He pushed the thought away, John was more than capable of taking care of himself.

Sherlock stood in front of the door for a minute, trying to hear noises coming from inside the flat. He heard the quiet hum of the telly but that was all. He placed one of the bags on the floor and knocked on the door.

There was a quick shuffling before a loud, "Who's there?" Sherlock flattened his hand on the door, closing his eyes at the sound of John's voice.

"Open the door, John," he said, feeling the wood beneath his fingers. "Please," he added quietly, but loudly enough for John to hear. After a moment there was shifting behind the door and the sounds of locks being thrown and a chain. Sherlock stepped back, grabbed the bag and waited. He held up his arms, prepared to offer the food as a sort of pacifying gift, but stopped short.

When the door opened and John stared back at him it was with red, blood shot eyes. Clearly, Sherlock realised with an ache in his chest, John had been crying.


	4. Chapter 4

For my fellow fireside reciter, although I'm sure she'd prefer something with dirty bits.

* * *

><p>"What?" John asked, hearing the tears in his voice. He felt ashamed, nobody knew that he still cried. Nobody knew just how much he'd mourned. Mary, he suspected, had an idea but she'd never asked, never pushed.<p>

Sherlock saw it though - John watched the tall frame lean back slightly, the grey eyes go wide. He didn't say anything for a moment, didn't move. He was shocked. John almost laughed; after all these years, it was tears that surprised Sherlock Holmes.

John's fingers curled around the door. He wanted to shut it, pretend that this wasn't happening. But that wasn't right either. It was Sherlock. Sherlock.

"I brought Chinese," Sherlock said holding up the bags. "From the place on Baker Street."

_Our place, _John thought. How many times had they eaten there together? How many times had they grabbed takeaway in the middle of the night after a case? They'd set it up on the coffee table, not bothering with plates, and laugh as they recalled their recently concluded adventure. They'd been some of the happiest moments of John's life and that struck him as very sad.

He wiped this cheek with his palm and nodded. He moved out of the way and motioned for Sherlock to come in. Sherlock hesitated a moment; John turned around and sat on the edge of his bed and watched Sherlock take in the room.

It was small, only one room. His single bed was pushed into one corner. The chair he'd taken from the flat, Sherlock's chair, was in the other. He'd moved it with him everywhere. The first time Mary had seen it there had been a look of distaste on her face. When he'd whispered that it had been Sherlock's she'd nodded, touched the soft leather, and agreed to keep it. When she'd decorated their living room it had been displayed with all the other furniture, not hidden away in a bedroom or office. She'd always been very accepting.

Both the bed and the chair faced the telly taking up a third corner. A short counter was across from the bed, next to the door to the loo. Sherlock sat the bags on the small counter between the sink and the microwave. He spotted the chair and a smile crossed his face. It grew when he noticed the skull sitting on top of the telly. He walked over to it and brushed his finger across the smooth bones.

"Mrs. Hudson and I had a fight over him," John said. It was more a disagreement than a fight, but Harry had snatched it when she cleaned out the flat. One thing about his sister, she didn't bat an eye stealing from an old lady. "I won, obviously."

Sherlock pulled his hand away and took the few steps to peak into the small loo, just a toilet and a small shower. Nothing very exciting, nothing more than a roof. But it was cheap and as far away from Mary physically and economically as he could get. And - if he was being honest - very far from Baker Street.

Sherlock turned his full attention to the chair, tracing the arm before turning to look at John. John nodded, a warm sensation bubbling in his chest at watching Sherlock reclaim the object as his. John held his breath and watched as Sherlock settled into the soft leather. He felt happy and he wanted to hold onto it. He knew it wouldn't last, but he wanted to feel good, just for a second. He wanted to feel like John again, a John he hadn't known in a long time.

"You look better with dark hair," John said, for no reason other than it was true. Sherlock looked at him, a curious expression on his face, and nodded. He stood again and went to the bags. He talked over his shoulder as he started to pull the containers out.

"Mrs. Hudson insisted, otherwise it was not something I thought much about." He paused, opening the one drawer and pulling out a spoon and a knife. John only had one set of silverware. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up but he said nothing about it. He simply handed John the fork and kept the spoon for himself. He passed John a white cardboard container and the smell of the food filling John's nostrils. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had Chinese food. He couldn't recall ever having it with Mary, she'd enjoyed cooking too much for them to eat out too often.

Sherlock took his own container and settled back in the chair. He picked at the food with his spoon for a minute, crossing one long leg over the other. "She wouldn't reveal where you were living until I altered the colour. I was very eager to find you."

John's chest tightened. He didn't want to talk about the real issues. He took a bite of his food and savoured the taste, watching Sherlock do the same. They ate in silence, the laughter that had so often accompanied this meal long gone.

After several bites, John reached over and sat the container on the floor. He put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms.

"I assure you, John," Sherlock began and John almost let out an audible groan, "the deception was necessary."

"You didn't trust me," John said to the floor. "All that time and I never-" he stopped, meeting the grey eyes. "I could have played the game. I could have helped you."

Sherlock shook his head. "The consequences were too high. I could not take the risk."

"Risk what, Sherlock? Your reputation? That is what this was about, right?" John stood. "I mean, he embarrassed you. He made you look second best, ordinary. He broke into the damn Tower. Jesus, Sherlock. He convinced everyone he was an actor, that you created the whole thing that you…"

His word's trailed off. He looked at the familiar face, the grey eyes watching him, studying him. A face that he'd remembered so perfectly and had missed so much. "I watched you jump," John said, his voice catching. "For three years, Sherlock, three years! I've played that over and over. I blamed-" he stopped held his hands up and swallowed past a lump in his throat. He shook his head and calmed himself.

Something crossed the detective's features and he stood. "John," he seemed alarmed. John took a step back. "No, John. Even if-"

"How in the hell was I supposed to know that?" John interrupted. Sherlock frowned and John saw doubt there, but he did not stop. "You left me nothing! You just let me to wonder, to doubt, and to mourn. You tried to convince me that you were a fraud that you'd lied to me. THAT I'D BEEN AN IDIOT. Not that you ever really thought anything else. I'm just John. Just simpleminded, plain, ORDINARY John."

Sherlock took a step towards him, reached out a hand. "NO-"

"Then why, Sherlock? WHY? What was the point? Why lie to me? I was too stupid, right? Couldn't be trusted?"

"Don't be ridiculous! The situation was hardly ideal. I had planned for the contingency, but it was not what I hoped for. Moriarty's suicide was unexpected but when that occurred I had no choice but to do the same."

John raised his arms in the air again, confused in the way that only Sherlock could make him. "Are you listening to yourself? That makes no sense, Sherlock. Leave? Why didn't you just leave? Through a door, down stairs, through another door, you're a genius you could have figured it out."

"Are _you_ listening to _me_?" Sherlock's voice finally snapped with anger. "It was necessary! Everything had to be executed exactly as it was. I had to jump, to prevent– It was necessary. It was necessary, John."

"To prove Moriarty wrong?" John snarled.

"TO SAVE YOU! HE WAS GOING TO KILL YOU!" Sherlock's voice was so loud John took another step back. Sherlock leaned forward pointing a finger. "If I didn't jump there was an assassin ready to kill you." The words hit John in the chest. He retreated another step, the door knob hitting his back. Sherlock followed. "If I had prevented Moriarty's death he could have called them off, but with him dead," Sherlock shook his head, "With him dead there was no other option. I had failed and I had to jump, I had to make them think I was dead. It was the only way they wouldn't shoot you. I knew that Moriarty would use you to hurt me, but I didn't know how. When my death was the only option to keep you alive, the decision was simple."

John watched Sherlock a moment, the words sinking in. He tried to think, tried to remember what had been around him. Mrs. Hudson was doing work at Baker Street then, there'd been strangers all about. He'd been distracted though, focused on Sherlock and the case. And how was he to notice an assassin among all the other assassins? At Bart's he'd only paid attention to Sherlock. John ran the whole scene over in his mind, the way he'd done countless times before. He shook his head, stopping when the image of Sherlock tossing the phone down came back to him.

He walked past the very much alive consulting detective and sat in the chair, his leather chair. It had been his for three years now. Sherlock couldn't have it back. He leaned forward knees on his thighs.

They were going to kill _him. _Sherlock had jumped to save _him. _ But he'd planned it all out beforehand, with Molly of all people. And Mycroft, John knew. Something like this didn't get past Mycroft; he'd been in on it, probably from the beginning.

"You played me," John said, shaking his head. "You played me like you played that stupid violin. How long Sherlock, how long was the joke on me?"

There was hurt in the eyes, John wished it changed something.

"Never, John. Never. It was the only option." There was a pause, Sherlock debating something before he continued speaking. "It wasn't just you. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed as well. The three people I cared about most, the only people I cared about. My only friend." There was quiet.

"You still could have told me, Sherlock." John leaned back and brought his knees up. "You should have told me or given me some idea. I didn't deserve that, this," he gestured with his hands towards his life in general.

"Would you have risked Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade? Friends protect you," Sherlock said looking at him again. John met his grey eyes. "Isn't that what you said when you left Bart's that day? Friends protect you. I was protecting you, John. My death was the only thing I knew would prevent yours. I had to ensure your safety."

"And Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's," John added, finishing the thought for Sherlock, a knot forming in his stomach.

"And _yours_," Sherlock said, drawing John's attention back to him. "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were important enough - _are_ important enough - to have made me jump anyway. But _you_ were why I did it. You were the one I was protecting." John kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's grey ones for a long moment before he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

It made sense in the unreasonable Sherlockian way, but John could still feel the anger pounding through his veins. He couldn't shake the feeling that the last three years of his life had been miserable for no reason at all. Sherlock could have found a way. He was Sherlock.

There was more silence. John sat back in the chair, bringing his legs up, and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. The show on the telly ended and another one began and ended before either of them said anything. Sherlock had kicked off his shoes and brought his long legs up on the bed. John noted the familiarity of it but didn't say anything. He was afraid to, afraid Sherlock would leave. He was as angry as he'd ever been, as hurt as he'd ever been, and he didn't want Sherlock to leave.

"Did you ever regret it?" John asked as a repeat of Top Gear came on. Sherlock looked over at him a minute before turning away.

"I had no other choice so it would have been pointless to regret it." John wasn't surprised - the answer was typical Sherlock. Of course he wouldn't have regretted John having nightmares or having to go back into therapy. It was 'necessary' after all. But maybe it been. "I did miss things though. I missed London, the flat, Mrs. Hudson." He looked at John. "I missed you." John nodded, looking away.

"I read your blog every day. Your tribute to me was particularly touching." John felt a swelling in his chest. He remembered writing that entry. It had been after he and Mrs. Hudson had gone to the cemetery, after he'd said what he needed to say. He'd sat on Harry's couch after she went to bed and written it out. He hadn't edited or even read it; he just posted it and moved on.

"I read about your engagement and your wedding," Sherlock added. "She seemed like a lovely woman. I thought you were happy. I wanted you to be happy." The words hung awkwardly between them for a minute, John was anything but happy. "Mrs. Hudson said that…"

"We are not going to talk about that," John said his voice stern. "Or Mary. We will not talk about Mary." Sherlock studied him for a moment and looked away, the topic clearly dropped. John turned towards the window and the quiet returned. The sounds coming from the telly was a little more than a noise in the distance separating them and then even that disappeared.

He glanced over to see the small remote in Sherlock's hands as he sat it back on the table. For a moment John considered arguing that that he'd been watching that but they'd both know it was a lie. He just continued to stare at the window, watching the sun dip below the building opposite, his thoughts swirling around.

_Him. They were going to kill him. And Mrs. Hudson. If he'd known they would have killed Mrs. Hudson. Would he have risked it? Would he have wanted to? _

When the silence became too heavy he spoke, keeping his attention out of the window. "Mycroft betrayed you, he gave Moriarty the fuel to use against you. That was planned out obviously. And Molly, well, she's Molly. I can understand why you'd need her help. And I'm sure she gave it willingly. But," he paused, pushing the emotion back down. "I was you friend, I defended you, fought next to you, put up with you. I deserved better than guilt, and nightmares, and grief. You could have done something different, found a way. You were my friend."

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him but he didn't turn around. "I am your friend," Sherlock said. "I was protecting you. It was the only way to guarantee that you weren't harmed. Trusting Mycroft was a necessity - as was your grief."

John nodded. He understood the logic, he really did. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He could understand Sherlock's thought process, he could see it. He didn't feel it though - his chest was seizing with anger and pain and joy that this man, his friend, was alive.

"I would visit you. Did you know that?" John asked. "Your birthday, holidays, and mostly just because I wanted to talk to you. I'd take you flowers and read news stories about unsolved cases to you." His voice caught as the memory of sitting in the cemetery one Christmas Eve quietly playing a violin recording came back to him. It had been ridiculous, he'd known that then. Sherlock didn't believe and John didn't really believe either. "Just in case," he whispered. He took a deep breath, it felt strange to be doing this. Not just because Sherlock was alive, because even before, even then, they didn't share like this. "I used to wonder why Mycroft never went. I guess it makes sense now."

There was several more moments of quiet. "I saw you there once," Sherlock started his voice barely breaking the silence. "You were with Mrs. Hudson. I suspect it was the first time after the funeral. I followed you a lot then, but not all the time."

John snapped his head around at that. Sherlock was talking to his hands, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. This must be mind-numbingly boring for him, John realised, but he hadn't left. Right after Sherlock's death, John had often felt Sherlock's presence mixed in with the moments of deep absence; now he wondered if in those moments Sherlock had actually been there.

Sherlock looked up and John was startled by the sincerity in his grey eyes. The sharp emotion that was normally kept so in check pouring out at him. "As I said, I _am _your friend. It was not easy for me to abandon my life. It was necessary, I assure you. Our friendship…" The word hung awkwardly between them and Sherlock didn't finish his thought. The silence settled again.

John looked away again. "I thought, maybe, we- it might be becoming more," John wondered if he would need to clarify, if Sherlock would understand, or know, or care. But something settled in John's chest at the words. It felt good to say it out loud.

"I was unaware of it at the time." Sherlock's voice was quiet. "I didn't notice the changes in you, perhaps because the changes in me were new and unfamiliar, but I believe you to be correct. Our friendship was altering, mutating even, into something more complicated."

John snorted at that, despite himself. Only Sherlock Holmes would use 'mutating' to describe becoming romantically interested in somebody. John looked back at Sherlock and there was a slight smile on Sherlock's face although John doubted he knew why it was humorous.

_Where does that leave us? _John thought. _Alive and well for him. Angry, bitter, depressed, soon to be divorced, and ridiculously overjoyed at seeing my friend for me. Complicated. _He sighed, letting his smile slip away, and turned back towards the window.

Silence.

The stars where flickering at him from their distant positions when he heard shuffling behind him. He glanced over to see Sherlock lying down on his bed. He watched Sherlock's head cushion against the pillow, stretching his long neck. A hand came up and curled under Sherlock's chin and his legs bent up into a picture perfect foetal position.

John let his eyes wander over the settling form, appreciating the small movements as Sherlock got comfortable. It caused a warm sensation in his belly that didn't surprise him as much as it should have. He'd felt it before while watching Sherlock, he had just never admitted it until now.

John watched Sherlock's face turn into the pillow, his cheek nuzzling the soft cotton. John had splurged when buying sheets for the single bed. It was one of the luxuries he'd discovered with Mary that he refused to give up. Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and held it. John realized Sherlock was smelling him on his pillow. The warmth shot in several directions and John's jaw dropped as he released a silent "oh." The want was strong and sudden and he pushed it away, hard.

Emotional decisions should always be slept on. His mother had always said that to him, not that he'd ever listened to her before. He focused on what he could see, the long limbs, the sleek body relaxing as sleep took over. He'd seen Sherlock asleep before, but he'd never watched it, never paid attention to it.

It was beautiful.

With the first quiet snore, John's urge became too much. He stood, crossed the small room, and planted his knee on the mattress. Sherlock turned, moving onto his back. His hip came to rest against John's knee and with a deep breath and his grey eyes opened. John leaned over, planted his hand in the pillow next to Sherlock's head.

"John?" said the sleepy baritone, and John felt the smile spread across his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Warnings – Adult interactions between two men will follow. Consider yourself warned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's heart started slamming in his chest. It was from the scent he realised. The overwhelming scent of John so close to him. He'd been close to John before - many, many times. Why was this different?<p>

They stared at each other. Sherlock noted the blueness of John's eyes, watched his pupils dilate. He held his breath, startled by the sensations stirring in his body, desperately wanting them to continue.

"John?" he whispered again and the doctor smiled. Sherlock's chest tightened. He held his body stiff, every muscle contracting as John leant down. He brushed his nose against Sherlock's ear, the exhalation of breath shivered over the detective's neck and goose bumps spread across his skin.

"Oh," escaped Sherlock as his jaw fell open. John inhaled sharply and there was hitch as he held the breath. He was smelling, Sherlock realised. John was smelling him. Sherlock's fingers flexed, he wanted to reach up, he wanted to touch - but he didn't want to move. He didn't want this to stop. John brushed his nose against Sherlock's earlobe and released his breath. The goose bumps returned.

John lifted his head and looked down at Sherlock again, his smile returning. An unfamiliar warmth settled in Sherlock's groin. His heart pounded harder, panic joining the mix of emotions swirling through him.

He needed to speak, he needed to clarify that he was unfamiliar with this, uncertain. He opened his mouth, the first sound of John's name released from his throat and was lost in a quiet moan. John dipped his head again, traced his nose along Sherlock's chin. Sherlock tipped his head, arching his neck into faint contact.

"You have an amazing neck," John whispered. His breath puffed against Sherlock's skin, sending little waves of fire across his neck and to his shoulders.

"Jo-" he began again, stopping when lips brushed his Adam's apple. The touch was light, barely noticeable, but shot through his chest and blood starting to pool in is groin. He was getting an erection, with John. He was getting an erection while in bed with John.

The breath moved down, the hot air bouncing in the hollow of his throat as John's nose pushed the collar of his shirt apart slightly. Sherlock pressed his head back into the pillow. "John," he gasped out as a fire hot tongue darted out into the same hollow. "Oh god, John," he whispered, only vaguely aware of the mattress moving underneath him. John's other leg settled across him, his weight resting on Sherlock's abdomen.

"Ungh," Sherlock managed. He brought his head up and stared down his body. John's jeans were stretched across his groin, the material tight across the noticeable bulge. Sherlock closed his eyes and his head sank back.

"Sherlock," said the voice above him and he opened his eyes, meeting John's wide blue ones. His pupils were dilated more than Sherlock thought was possible; they swallowed him, encompassed him, and he started to drown. His heart stammered.

"Yes or no?" John asked. Sherlock heard the words, but they were lost somewhere. He didn't understand them. He felt his brow wrinkle in confusion. "Yes or no?" John asked again, leaning forward slightly, his breath brushing across Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's head lifted, he wanted to touch those lips with his. He wanted to taste John. The thought of it soared through him and his hips thrust upwards, bumping against John. Sherlock groaned, his eyes closed. His cock throbbed, aching at the awkward position in his pants.

"I've-," he started, his mouth dry. He tried to swallow tried to say something, but those blue eyes were still looking at him. The scent of John was so strong, so unbelievably strong. His weight across Sherlock's hips pressed him into the mattress.

"Have you?" John paused, looking concerned. Sherlock didn't like it. The flushed arousal on John's face was so much more attractive. "Have you ever done this before?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Experimented," he managed, swallowing again and finding his voice. "I experimented when I was younger." He leant up; he wanted to taste John desperately.

"Sherlock?" John asked, pulling away. He was uncertain. How annoying.

"Yes, John," Sherlock snapped. "Of course yes."

John pulled back farther, studying him. Sherlock reached up, touching John for the first time. He put his hands on either side of John's face and pulled until the smaller body was lying on top of him. Heat radiated off John's frame and through Sherlock. He closed his eyes and John leant forward.

His lips were soft, so very soft. John turned his head slightly and his tongue pressed against Sherlock's lips. They opened willingly. Sherlock's hand moved into John's hair, holding him in place as he planted his feet and pushed up into John. The doctor groaned and pushed deeper, running his hand down Sherlock's arm.

John sat up and pulled Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers. He started on the buttons, slowly brushing his fingers over each newly exposed piece of skin. Sherlock dragged his hands up John's thighs, digging his fingers into the jeans. John popped the last button and pushed the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock sat up, yanked it off, and tossed it to the floor. He grabbed the bottom of John's t-shirt and pulled it over the doctor's head tossing it on the floor to join his. The smattering of golden hairs on John's chest shone in the light; Sherlock wanted to taste there too. He wanted to taste everything.

John pushed on his shoulders and he lay back. Sherlock ran his hand ups John's arms, the soft hairs tickling his fingers. He tried to pull the small body down again, but John resisted. The doctor slid back, resting on Sherlock's thighs, his blue eyed gaze moved down and his lips curving into a sultry smile.

"That can't be comfortable," John said. A hand came up and pressed against the Sherlock's wool trousers, the palm resting where cock met balls then pushing upwards until the sensitive head was trapped between John's index and middle fingers. Sherlock went limp, his brain focussing solely on the contact. John's hand was hot, even through the trousers and pants.

"We should get that out of there," John said, pressing the two fingers together against the head. Sherlock gasped, arching off the bed. He throbbed, almost painfully, and his cock twitched, liquid starting to ease out of him.

"Uh," he said, trying to respond, but he was blank, his mouth dry. John's fingers moved apart, then together again. Sherlock closed his eyes, his hips beginning a gentle cant against John's hand. The fingers released again, then tightened. Sherlock began to see stars.

His trousers were unbuttoned and the zip went down. He ignored it, not caring. John's fingers pressing against him had his full attention. "John, please," he heard, registering several seconds later that it had indeed been his voice. He was begging.

John chuckled and pulled his hand away. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his hand flew up, reaching for John.

"What?" he stammered, sounding drunk. It was ridiculous really; he should have better control of himself - but John's hand. He wanted John's hand. He tried to close his fingers around John's wrist but his hand was swiped away. The doctor's fingers pushed under the waistband of the trousers and started to push them down.

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, watching his cock bounce to attention as the material moved down his thighs. The head was swollen and purple, shiny with pre-cum that covered the tip and dripped down the underside. He was like that because of John. The idea jolted through him and he watched his cock bob.

He would have been hesitant or alarmed if his brain had been working properly. As it was, he could think of nothing else but seeing John. The jeans had to come off. Sherlock reached up, grabbed the button, but John slapped his hand away again. The doctor made quick work of the jeans and pushed them down.

Sherlock examined each piece of new visible piece of flesh greedily. The well-muscled thighs where the hairs were darker. The perfect knees that would fit precisely in Sherlock's palms. The well-shaped calves that ended in slender yet strong ankles. John was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Sherlock dragged his eyes back up, finally looking at the prize. John's cock bounced slightly as he moved back onto the bed.

He was shorter than Sherlock, but not much. And he was thicker, the head large, swollen and darker than the rest. The veins were prominent tracing all around the shaft. Sherlock reached out, catching a drop as it seeped out. John moaned, leaning forward, bracing his weight on his arms. Sherlock ignored that, circling the warm liquid over the tip and tracing his fingers down along a vein on the side. John pushed forward as Sherlock examined him, his face flushed, his breathing haggard. It was the most amazing thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Long fingers closed around the wide shaft and pushed the foreskin up and down. Sherlock had masturbated before; it was a semi-annoying necessity. He tended to finish as quickly as possible so that he could continue whatever he'd been doing.

This was different though, so amazingly different. He wanted John like this, panting, hips thrusting forward slightly, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip, forever. He wanted John like this absolutely forever. He brushed his thumb of the swollen head and John snapped. A hand clamped on Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock let go.

"Too much," John stuttered as he released Sherlock's wrist and grabbed the base of his own cock, sitting back on his knees. He was stopping himself. Sherlock grinned, the sight shivering through him. He traced a hand up John's thigh and the doctor leant over, licking his hand, palm to tip, before closing his fingers around Sherlock's shaft and starting to pump.

"Oh god," Sherlock said, his fingers digging into the thigh. He felt his nails press in, felt the skin give way, but John didn't stop. He looked down, watching John push the foreskin up and over the head, hiding it for a second before pulling it back down. John caught some pre-cum on his middle finger and the other hand moved down to cup Sherlock's balls.

"These are so swollen." He gave them a squeeze and the edges of Sherlock's vision went black. A thumb pressed into tenders sacks. Sherlock throbbed, closing his eyes. He was coming, he was sure of it. He planted his feet and felt a small eruption release from him. The pre-cum splattered across his abdomen and the sensation went away. It wasn't enough. He started to drive his hips into John's hand.

"Like that?" John chuckled, loosening his grip. John's middle finger moving away from the balls to press on the tight hole. "Relax," he said. And Sherlock looked down at him.

That, he'd never done before. John's movements on his cock slowed and Sherlock forced his hips to still. He closed his eyes and focused on the muscles, forced them to relax. They'd reached the limit of his sexual experimentation and were about to jump right over it. He took a deep breath and gave a slight nod. John pushed his finger in and Sherlock arched up, his body balanced on his feet and shoulders. His muscles contracted around John and he screamed out an incoherent word. It hurt and it was beautiful.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he started to chant, the knowledge that John was, indeed, a doctor coming to him in the split second before the finger curled. The sensation shot through him, every muscle seized. He collapsed on the mattress. John curled his finger again and used his thumb to press into Sherlock's balls.

"John," Sherlock managed, groaning as the fist started to move on him again. "Oh god, John, oh god. UHHHH!"

His eyes squeezed shut tighter, fireworks going off behind the closed lids. There was a breath on him a second before the warm mouth close around him. Everything went black. Sherlock felt John's finger curl again and he exploded. He pushed into John, felt the hot liquid fill John's mouth and John swallowed it down. He exploded again and heard screaming, realised it was him the moment before he collapsed on the mattress.

As the blood started rushing back to his brain Sherlock had a sudden feeling of acceptance. This is what all the fuss was about and he couldn't believe that he'd lived thirty-five years without truly experiencing it. He opened his eyes.

It was wonderful. Sex was absolutely wonderful.

Everything was blurry except for John. The doctor had a glow about him as he pushed to his knees, bending slightly over Sherlock. Sherlock reached a hand up and closed over the shaft, mixing his fingers with John's frantically working ones.

"Come on, John," he said, his voice sounding far away. He wanted to watch it though, wanted to see it. He wanted John to feel exactly like he felt. As John moved his fist down Sherlock reached his thumb up, dragging it over the over exposed head. John's breath caught and he collapsed forward. His forehead landed on Sherlock's shoulder, his cries bouncing off one of the suddenly aching nipples. Sherlock brought a hand up and ran his fingers through the soft blonde hairs at the base of John's neck. A second later John stiffened and Sherlock felt the hot fluid land on his stomach. He turned his head, whispering nothings into John's ear until the doctor relaxed and collapsed boneless on top of him.

A moment later, with his breathing still haggard and his heart still pounding, John shoved his arms under Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, bringing his legs up to cover the slim hips. He held John tightly as the doctor shook. Eyelashes brushed his neck and as John buried his face there.

"Thank god," John said. "Thank god," he repeated. "I missed you so much." Sherlock turned his head and planted a kiss into John's soft hair.

* * *

><p>The brightness penetrated his sleep. Sherlock rolled over, pushed his face into the pillow, and tried to hide from it. He smelled John and smiled. The warmth was still spread out across his body, the smell of the two of them, and sex wafted around the small room. He reached an arm out into the small space where John should be and it was empty and cold. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up quickly; he knew John wasn't in the flat before his feet hit the floor. It was empty – but not empty as if John had gone to work. Empty like before John, empty like those three long years away.<p>

He noticed the mahogany box sitting on the chair and the sheet of paper sitting on top of it. His chest ached as he took a step towards it; he took a breath and it wracked through him. He touched the leather, grounding himself. Notebook paper, John often kept notebooks around to write down ideas, info on cases, lists. John always liked lists. There was nothing about the paper to make it traceable or unique. Nothing that made it special other than the fact that it had been John's.

Sherlock took another shaky breath and read the note.

_Sherlock, _

_I'm happier than I can say that you are alive. Always know that. I'm sorry._

_John._

Sherlock read it again and again then collapsed onto his knees and rested his cheek against the cool leather.


	6. Chapter 6

"What exactly is it that you want from me?"

Sherlock held his hands up in disbelief and looked towards the ceiling. "I need your assistance in locating John, obviously!"

"Have you asked his wife?" Sherlock snarled and Mycroft's eyebrow shot up. He folded the newspaper up and sat it on his thigh. "Have you considered that John might not wish to be found? I imagine that he was more than a little upset with your charade."

Sherlock nodded; Mycroft's words rang truer than even his brother knew.

"I need to speak to him," Sherlock said, allowing the animosity he always had while dealing with Mycroft fade away. He needed his brother's assistance, desperately. After three years, he was uncertain where to even begin looking for John. "It is imperative that I explain further."

Mycroft tilted his head to one side. "If you'll recall I suggested that you tell him every–"

"Having this conversation again will accomp–"

"It would be nice if you would acknowledge that I–"

"FINE!" Sherlock exclaimed, standing and moving towards the door before stopping short. He closed his eyes and tilted his head down. He imagined he could still smell John there, the faint hint of the doctor lingering after their encounter. He opened his eyes and stared at the wood panelled wall in front of him.

"Fine," he repeated. "Perhaps I should have considered your suggestion and told John." He let his eyes drift closed again and shook his head. "I was unwilling to risk it, unwilling to risk _him_."

He turned to see Mycroft had steepled his fingers and was pressing his index fingers against his lips. His eyes were darting across Sherlock's face, analysing. Generally Sherlock would find this infuriating, but he rested his hands on the back of the chair and let Mycroft look. He let his panic move to the surface, his desperation swelling in his chest.

After a moment Mycroft's eyes went wide and he met Sherlock's gaze.

"Really?" he asked. He straightened in his chair and let his hands drops. "With John Watson, really?"

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden. His heart started to pound in his chest, but he kept silent. Mycroft tilted his head genuine surprise crossing his features.

"John," Mycroft murmured letting out a gasping chuckle a moment later. "John Watson."

Sherlock frowned and curled his fingers into the overstuffed chair. He took a deep breath and pushed all of the emotions down. "Is it necessary to be so surprised? He is a more than worthy choice."

Mycroft looked back at him, an odd combination of emotions on his face. He cocked his head to the side and smiled at Sherlock. "Of course he is. I am surprised that _you _have come finally come to this conclusion." Sherlock stiffened. "I am surprised that you have moved past your intellectual elitism to see it yourself."

"John is not stupid," Sherlock spat.

"Of course not," Mycroft said, standing, "It's you who were stupid – about a great many things." Mycroft walked towards his coat hanging in the corner and reached into the pocket, pulling out his mobile and scrolling through something on the screen. Sherlock released the chair. "I think," Mycroft said hitting a button and holding the phone to his ear, "that perhaps you have finally realized as much."

Sherlock stomach twisted and he was tempted to double over in protection against the pain. Mycroft's voice brought him back though – or perhaps it was the words.

"John Hamish Watson." A pause. "Yes, that is him. Find him now." The phone was returned to the pocket and Mycroft moved back towards his chair.

"So, dear brother," he began as he sat back down. "Sex. Now that you've experienced it I am curious as to your perspective."

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in the back of the cab looking out of the window. He watched the London streets move past but didn't <em>see <em>them. He could see nothing but John, the doctor superimposed over everything.

_What do you mean there's no trace? _Sherlock had closed his eyes as Mycroft spoke into the phone. _He has to be somewhere. Find him. I don't care if you have to sit through every minute of CCTV footage from across the city. Do it. Now._

He'd known, of course. He'd taught John a lot in their time together. He'd hoped it would be easy – John using a credit card to buy a plane ticket or a train ticket. Hanging a banner from the Tower Bridge that read "I've gone to Edinburgh".

_Did you check his Oyster card? His phone? His email?_

Sherlock had pulled his phone out of his pocket at those words and brought up the blog. The words had been his only line to John for so long and there were no new ones on the screen. It was the blog from four days ago, John having lunch with Bill Murray and his wife. The only picture was John holding the small baby that was a new addition to the Murray family. Sherlock studied it, John looking down at the little baby sleeping on his chest.

There was a smile on the familiar face, but something missing in the eyes. Sherlock hadn't noticed that when he'd read the entry previously.

He hadn't noticed it in any of the pictures. He scrolled through several of them while Mycroft gave orders. The look was in all of them – the lack of _John_.

He'd stood as Mycroft said something else. It didn't matter; he wasn't going to get an answer right away. He left.

The cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street and Sherlock climbed out, legs aching as he climbed the few steps and reached for the knob.

"Sherlock," he heard and looked over his shoulder. Mrs Hudson came out of Speedy's and looked up at him. The smile that was across her face dropped immediately.

"What happened?" she asked holding out a hand and leading him back down the stairs. "Come in, dear, I'll get you some tea and some food." Sherlock shook his head but allowed himself to be pulled inside. Upstairs, he was pushed into to a chair and a few moments later there was a cup of tea in front of him.

"I was worried when you didn't come back last night. I waited up." She put a plate in front of him. His stomach grumbled with the smell of the sausage roll and churned with uneasiness a moment later. He reached for the food but then dropped it back on the plate.

"I tried to call John but his phone is going directly to voicemail. He does that sometimes at the surgery." Mrs Hudson took a deep breath and Sherlock met her eyes. She looked troubled for a moment and her hand settled on his wrist. "What happened?"

Sherlock swallowed and shook his head.

"I don't know where he is," he said. "I thought perhaps he had forgiven me." He remembered the smell of John as he looked up and met those blue eyes, the softness of John's lips on his. Sherlock parted his lips and darted his tongue out to brush over them. He remembered the beautiful sweetness that was John. "When I woke up he was gone."

He met Mrs Hudson's eyes and saw the realization there too. Her surprise was less obvious than Mycroft's had been and it was accompanied by sympathy.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." She squeezed his wrist. "I'm sure he'll be back, he's had a rough couple of days." Sherlock shook his head. That wasn't right. John was gone.

"I called the surgery," he said. "They said he is on indefinite holiday. He wouldn't just–" He swallowed, looking away from her. "He wouldn't just abandon his patients, you know that as well as I do."

Mrs Hudson nodded, and pushed the tea at him with her other hand. "Have you called Harry? Perhaps he would have called her. Or Mary–"

She stopped, and he felt her stiffen across from him. He looked up and saw a flash of something cross her face. It puzzled him.

"I'm sorry," she said, quickly trying to deny something in her mind. He watched her, watched the gears turn in her head. "You don't want to talk about her."

"No," he said. "I don't." Mrs Hudson pulled her hand back and stood. "They are divorcing," he added.

"Let me reheat this for you," she said, grabbing at the plate and Sherlock slapped his fingers around her wrist. She looked alarmed and reflexively tried to pull away. He tightened his fingers. She knew something, he realized. She'd just realized it too.

"Sherlock. You have to eat something."

"Where's John?" he asked. Something swelling inside of him, anger or fear.

"Sherlock," she said again. "I don't know, dear. He'll be back. He just needs time."

"Where is he?" he repeated. She shook her head.

"I don't know," she yanked her hand back, glaring at him. She walked behind the counter and he began to follow. "Perhaps you should think about what has happened to him."

"You remembered something," he insisted, resting his knuckles on the worn surface, leaning forward. "While speaking of John's wife, you realized something. What's happened? What do you know?"

"Nothing!" she exclaimed and Sherlock could see it in her face as she turned around. She was getting upset, angry.

"Do you think he's with _her_?" he spat, unable to say her name. Mrs Hudson' eyes grew wide and Sherlock took a step back, stiffening.

"You do," he said. "You think that he's with her and you're glad." He pointed at her. "You're glad."

"No," she countered. "No, of course not."

"WHERE IS HE?" Sherlock shouted, surprising even himself.

"I– I – I–" Mrs Hudson stuttered, shaking her head. "I'm not sure."

She was afraid. He could see it in her face. She was afraid of him. It startled him; he'd never seen that before. He also saw that she really didn't know.

He relaxed and took a step back from the counter, watching Mrs Hudson relax in response.

Sherlock turned and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms and lowering his head down onto the table. He heard footsteps as Mrs Hudson moved towards him. The tea was sat on the table beside him and one of her hands settled on the back of his head.

"I got an email this morning from Mary." Sherlock nodded, not really wanting to hear what she had to say. "She and I had tickets to a show at the National this weekend, we've had them for months. She said she couldn't make it after all, suggested I ask Mrs Turner. She knows that we both enjoy going. It was a show John mentioned though. I thought it was odd that she not suggest I take John. Perhaps she already knew that John wasn't interested."

He sat up, dislodging her hand, and looked up at her. There were tears in her eyes and he wondered if they were for him or for John. Perhaps guilt that until yesterday she'd hoped John and Mary would rekindle their romance, save their marriage.

He nodded and stood up before taking deep breath and heading towards the door.

"I'm staying in Shadwell," Sherlock said over his shoulder He didn't want her to worry more than necessary.

"Why?" she asked following him out the door. "The flat upstairs…"

"No," he said heading back up the stairs. He couldn't stay there, not yet. Maybe never without John.

"Sherlock," she called after him but he didn't turn back.

* * *

><p>He lay down on the bed and buried his face in the soft pillow. He could smell John there, the shampoo and soap. He could smell himself too. And sex. He could still smell the sex, the hormones and pheromones and sweat. He rubbed his cheek on the soft material the rough hairs he had not shaved off that day catching.<p>

It made him smile and it felt good. Very good.

Sherlock reached over and pulled the box from where he set it on the floor. He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, the crease where top met lid almost unnoticeable. It was mahogany, hand crafted, very expensive. He knew without a doubt that Mary bought this, not John. John wouldn't buy something this extravagant for himself. He could almost hear the doctor's voice declaring that it was 'just a box.' It was just a box, just the box that John had left behind for him.

Sherlock placed his fingers on the latches. The sound of them snapping open shivered up his spine. He closed his eyes, pausing a moment before lifting the lid. He pushed it up and slowly opened his eyes to look inside. He reached his hand in and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. He sorted through them, they were all about him. He stared at the headlines.

_Death of a Madman. Suicide of the Lunatic Genius. _

There were dozens of them, hundreds. He looked farther down in the pile noticing that there were earlier articles too, long before the fame had become an issue. Some of the articles were even before John. The doctor had collected them all.

There was a white envelope at the bottom and Sherlock pulled it out. It was a series of random documents from Ireland, all of them relating back to Moriarty.

"He was trying to prove he wasn't Richard Brook," Sherlock whispered, "He was trying to prove I was right." Sherlock frowned, his fingers shaking as he put everything back. He sat the box aside and looked around the small room.

The last place he'd seen John. He sighed and buried his face in his hands.

He dug his phone out of his pocket. His battery was low. He was going to have to go back to Baker Street he realized, he should have grabbed his belongings while he was there. The thought of entering the flat made his chest tighten and his head spin. He wondered if that was how John had been, if it was the same sensation that kept John away.

He typed out a text message to Mrs Hudson asking her to gather up his belongings. She replied right away but he ignored it. He opened his browser and typed in the address for John's blog. He got an error message and tried again with the same result. He groaned wishing he had his laptop. He sent another text message to Mrs Hudson reminding her that it was there before he tried John's blog again. He got the same error message and frowned.

He had given up trying to break into John's email account. Eighteen months with Sherlock had taught John how to create passwords that were impossible to deduce. It was frustrating. He opened his own email program and slowly typed an email to John. He held his finger over the send button for a minute before the deleting the whole thing and starting over.

_I'm sorry. Please contact me. _He hit send and said a silent non-believer prayer that John would read it and respond.

He tried the blog a final time and his phone's battery warning came up. He shook his head and tossed it on the bed behind him. He almost ignored the text message alert again, assuming that it was Mrs Hudson, but he reached for the phone. It was from Mycroft.

_Phone last used in in building that contains a flat owned by Mary and John Watson. Phone either off or GPS disengaged. Blog and email accounts terminated using coffee shop wireless near Paddington._

Sherlock read it several times, thinking of the blog. Terminated. Five years of John's life basically deleted. Five years of memories gone. He couldn't imagine John being that angry at him. He opened his email program and hit refresh until he saw the "failure to deliver" notice. John wouldn't be reading his email.


	7. Chapter 7

"Is this all?" Sherlock asked, starting the video over.

"The only video evidence, yes. He learned a lot from you, it seems. He avoided almost all the CCTV cameras, even the ones near Paddington."

Sherlock nodded, watching the black and white image of John getting out of a cab. He pulled two small suitcases out with him and set them on the street as he paid the driver. As the cab drove away, John lifted his head. Sherlock paused the video looking at John's face. The camera quality was not good, the angle was not good, but Sherlock could see him. Sherlock knew. John knew exactly where the camera was; he was looking right at it. Looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock's fingers itched and curled on the keyboard. He wanted to touch the screen, run his finger over the tiny image of John. He wouldn't though, not with Mycroft sitting there. Instead he frowned and started the video again.

"There are a couple of private businesses from which we haven't been able to obtain security footage but I don't hold out much hope that it will provide much more information. I doubt he stopped in front of any of them. Mary Watson is at the office, as would be expected on a Wednesday morning. I sent someone into the flat–"

"You broke in?" Sherlock interrupted, finding it amusing that his brother was resorting to breaking and entering.

"Yes," Mycroft said, unfazed. "You did wish for my help locating John Watson, correct?" He paused waited for a response that Sherlock wasn't going to give him. After a moment Mycroft nodded and continued. "He is not there and there is no evidence that he is living there. As you can see he entered the building, but he left without being seen."

"How?" Sherlock asked. "Did you watch all the footage?"

"The back of the building is not in view of a camera. He could have entered a taxi or the tube without us being able to see him. And if you think we can find him among the morning tube masses, you have unrealistic expectations."

Sherlock nodded and played the short clip again. "He has not used his credit cards or debit cards. No money has been taken out of his accounts. Whatever he's doing, wherever he's going, he's not leaving a trail. He will have to access his accounts eventually, however, and I will be watching."

"Good," Sherlock said, staring at the image on the video. There were a stack of papers sitting next to the laptop that Mycroft had brought with him. He'd examine them later; the image of John was too distracting. He started the video over and watched John get out of the cab. He didn't stop it when John looked at the camera but let it play. John's shoulder was bothering him, that was obvious in the way he changed his grip on the suitcase twice in the short walk to the car park door.

"Is this really where John was living?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't respond. "I mean the man is a bloody surgeon; certainly he could have afforded a more habitable flat."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, watching the black and white image.

"Obviously this new relationship has rotted your brain." Sherlock glanced at his brother and noticed that Mycroft was eyeing the bed with a look of distaste on his face. "Have you considered that you were dreadful at it and that's why he left?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled, leaving the image on his screen and picking up the first file. It had been fine, he would have known if John had not been satisfied sexually. And John would not leave for that reason.

Mycroft chuckled and stood. "I will get you new identification so that you can leave the country should you need to. Or are you ready to declare yourself undead?"

"If it will help locate John, I will scream it from the dome of St. Paul's."

"I doubt that will be necessary. If you'll recall you were quite the media sensation before your untimely death – and after, for that matter. It should be as simple as notifying a newspaper that you're alive. The story will carry on its own after that."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the file. "If it comes to that we will handle it. I can prove that I was correct and that Richard Brook was a fraud."

Mycroft shuffled and Sherlock's eyes darted up. "Really?" he asked, disbelieving. Sherlock's eyes darted to the mahogany box on the counter next to the sink and he watched Mycroft turned towards it. Sherlock stiffened.

"John proved it, it's all in there. I would prefer if you did not touch it."

"You haven't gone public yet?" Mycroft asked.

"It's irrelevant," Sherlock responded, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. He wasn't going to let his brother touch it.

Mycroft looked at the box again and Sherlock watched his brother decide to leave it alone. He relaxed back into his seat and glanced back at the computer screen, back at John. He heard the door close. He checked his watch; he had an hour before he had to leave again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock thought perhaps the yelling was over. He checked his watch, it certainly seemed to have gone on long enough.<p>

"I FUCKING CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!" Apparently not. Sherlock shifted in his chair, crossed his legs, and continued to sit quietly. Sitting quietly seemed to be the best option at the moment.

"I went to your funeral!" Lestrade said continuing to stare out of the window. "I fucking spoke! I fucking said nice things about you! NICE THINGS!" The DI turned then and Sherlock met his eyes.

"And this!" Lestrade gestured at him. "You and your fucking brother concocted this whole thing! This giant fucking game to see what everyone would do. I bet that's it, isn't it, you wanted to see what people would say about you? See if you'd be remembered."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and stayed silent when Lestrade gestured emphatically with his hands and then asked: "Well?" Sherlock realized that he genuinely wanted an answer.

"Hardly." He shifted again. "My death was required so that I could infiltrate the crime web Moriarty had created and ensure that the assassins hired to kill Mrs. Hudson, you, and John were stopped."

Lestrade paused for a minute, processing. "Assassins?" he asked with real interest for a moment. Sherlock opened his mouth to explain further but he was cut off. "NICE THINGS!" Lestrade yelled and turned back towards the window. "FUCKING NICE THINGS! I GOT TEARY, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"It is appreciated," Sherlock said and Lestrade snapped around to glare at him.

"Fucking. Nice. Things." He pointed as his chest. "Me."

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "I can continue to apologize if you so desire, but it seems redundant. Perhaps it would help to know that I am uncertain as to whether I would say nice things about you should I have failed and the assassin killed you."

"Oh, please," Lestrade said moving back to his desk and taking the seat. "That's rubbish and you know it. Mrs. Hudson and John, that's why you did it. If it was just me you have let them shoot me."

"That's not true," Sherlock said. "I cannot say for certain what my actions would have been, but I don't believe I would have sacrificed your life to spare mine."

"Thanks," Lestrade said, the sarcasm apparent in his voice. Sherlock smiled, he'd missed the DI. It wasn't truly a surprise, but the strength of the emotion was. He'd genuinely missed this man, his sometimes adversary, sometimes compatriot. Lestrade stiffened for a moment and pointed a finger at him.

"Wait, did John…" he trailed off and his eyes darkened. He looked away and shook his head. "Never mind, of course not." Sherlock stared at him a moment, curious.

"Why are you so certain that John was not involved?" Lestrade met his eyes again and there was something there, a look Sherlock could not classify but it sent a chill down his spine. Lestrade sat back in his chair.

"He didn't know. I don't think you'd ever be able to convince me he did. He isn't that good of an actor. No way."

Sherlock frowned. He wanted more, an explanation maybe, a description. He wanted as much information about John as he could gather. But he suspected the Lestrade would not say more. The man could be decidedly stubborn.

"He didn't know," Sherlock said, managing to prevent his voice from breaking. "I told him two days ago, he has sense gone missing. He left his flat in Shadwell during the night and arrived at Mary's–" He hesitated on her name but shook the emotions away. "He arrived at the flat he shared with Mary Watson. He's not there but his current location is unknown. His mobile is off, he's deleted his blog and cancelled his email account."

"Wouldn't your brother be better equipped to help you with this?"

Sherlock sighed, "Yes, Mycroft is doing what he can. However, you're friendly with John. Perhaps if he contacts you-" Lestrade had started to shake his head. "What?"

"He's angry at you? Right? You didn't get the warm 'WELCOME BACK FROM THE DEAD' reception you were hoping for. Did he tell you to piss off? Good on him."

"It is not that simple."

"It is that simple," Lestrade said. He slammed his hand on the desk and glared at Sherlock. "He was your mate and you lied to him. I'm pretty pissed off and you and I weren't-" He trailed off and Sherlock stared at him. The DI shook his head and calmed himself. Sherlock wished he'd stay angry, he'd get more information that way.

"John's an adult. I can't put out a notice for a grown man who for all we know is with his _wife. _If he wants to talk to you he'll come to you."

"I need to speak to him." Sherlock heard the hint of desperation in his voice.

"Then you can find him without my help," Lestrade snapped. Sherlock was quiet a minute, studying the DI's face. There was a look there he couldn't understand and he didn't like it.

"I'm simply asking-"

"No," Lestrade interrupted his voice quiet. There was a finality in the words that Sherlock had not anticipated. Lestrade would not help him.

The silence of the finished argument settled between them. Sherlock pulled back emotionally, looking for the words to get his way. He couldn't see another option. He opened his mouth and heard the quiet "please" as it escaped his lips. Lestrade looked amazed.

"I–" He paused for a minute. "I doubt he'll contact me honestly. We don't socialize too often. I remind him of you and he doesn't always welcome those memories. They're obviously still painful. If he's really pissed at you he won't come to me. If he does, I will _only_ to tell him that you're looking and that you want him to contact you. That is it. I won't give you any information about him."

Sherlock nodded. He hadn't considered John breaking contact with Lestrade, but then he'd never considered that John would mourn him for three years either. "Also tell him that I will not stop until I find him."

* * *

><p>There was no traffic and very little noise. It was an alarmingly calm area to be located so close to the center of London. Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, staring at the building in front of him. He looked up, knowing the flat that they'd shared had been on the twenty-third floor. He counted the levels and stared at the dark windows. There was no one there, he knew that. He'd believed Mycroft. It'd be too easy.<p>

He'd come here planning on entering the building, he knew he could if he wanted to. It would not be difficult. But he found he didn't need to. What he needed was right here, in this street.

He turned his head and glanced up at the camera on top of the building across the street. He stared at it, knowing Mycroft might be watching him and not caring. John had looked at it. John had looked at it knowing Sherlock would see it.

Sherlock took a slight step to the right, thinking that was probably closer to the spot John had been standing. He stared that the camera for just another second. He closed his eyes and thought of John. His John. He'd stood here, walked to that door and made his way to the flat he'd shared with her. Mary, his wife. After that everything was dark and quiet. John was gone.

Sherlock looked back up the building and at the dark windows that marked that flat. He didn't know where John went from there. But he would find out.


	8. Chapter 8

"What?" Sherlock hissed into the phone.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked and he rolled his eyes before peaking around the corner at the road. There was still no sign of the car. He'd debated about where to confront John's wife, initially thinking her office would be ideal. However the building had tight security and she was not easy to get an appointment with.

_Ms. Watson only deals with select corporate clients. Would you like to speak to one of other advisors? _He'd hung up immediately.

"I haven't heard from you in a few days and I was worried. Are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson repeated and Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. I'm about to question someone regarding John's whereabouts so I can't speak for long." A car turned onto the street and stopped in front of the building. A man got out and Sherlock held his breath for a moment expecting _her _to get out next. Another man got out though and the car drove away. Sherlock frowned and realized that Mrs. Hudson was chatting away in his ear.

"…got a text message from Mary asking how I was doing. I thought I might invite her over, perhaps she might share with me where John is. Especially if she doesn't yet know you're alive. Perhaps John didn't tell her."

"From what I've learned, John spent several hours with her that morning before he left for wherever he is. I doubt that he failed to mention it to her, especially as he took the time to notify Harry of my return."

The memory of his encounter with Harry caused his back to stiffen. He'd attempted to call her several times but she either refused to answer or was not available. He tended to believe the former. He reached his hand up and lightly touched his jaw; it was still sore from where she'd punched him. At least there was no noticeable bruise. In retrospect, confronting a drunk in a pub had not been his most brilliant idea.

"Well yes, dear. That didn't work out well. Perhaps if you let me try."

"These people are not imbeciles, Mrs. Hudson. If you inquire, they will know that you're doing so on my behalf. They must understand that your loyalty is to me and not them. You would tell me if you knew where John was."

"Of course, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, although he wasn't sure that he believed her entirely. It was one of the reasons that he refused to let her try. Her concern for John and her compassion for Sherlock weighed equally within her. Sherlock didn't trust it, didn't trust her, not completely. She'd admitted to being in contact with Mary by email and she was also in contact with Harry and Bill Murray. Sherlock had hacked into her email and was monitoring it, just in case. He wasn't certain that given the right motivation she would also protect John. That had been Harry's phrase, 'protecting John'. He'd found it ridiculous - it was not as if he wished the man any harm.

He found it all unnerving, this wall of people between him and John. It should have been ridiculously easy to penetrate but instead they were all holding true. At night when he was alone, Sherlock was starting to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Starting to wonder if he should just let John stay gone. But that idea was absurd as well. It was John, his John, his blogger, his friend. John. No one would keep him away from John forever.

Mrs. Hudson was rattling on about something and Sherlock continued to ignore her. A long black limousine pulled in front of the building and the woman he'd been waiting for climbed out. Sherlock recognized her immediately although she was smaller than he anticipated. A man got out after her and Sherlock knew right away that it must be her brother. The family resemblance was apparent, even at a distance.

"I have to go," he said, ringing off, not bothering to let Mrs. Hudson say anything else. He turned the sound off as he dropped the phone into his pocket. He wasn't keen to be interrupted again. He watched the two of them enter the building. He had not prepared for her to be accompanied, but the car did not drive away. Her sibling was obviously not expected to take long.

Sherlock leaned against the wall and waited. He wanted Mary Watson to be alone when he confronted her. He was prepared to intimidate her if need be, not harm her. He knew John would not forgive him if he harmed her, but he was more than capable of getting what he wanted.

He had been reluctant to resort to this. He had no desire to interact with her at all after having determined her to be his competition. However, Sherlock had reluctantly acknowledged that he needed the information she had. He was getting nowhere using his usual methods.

He'd spent days digging through phone records and emails. He'd cross referenced phone calls going to Mary, Harry, and the rest of John's friends. It had been tedious because Harry's office had a switchboard with thousands of calls coming in everyday, so did The Christiansson Group. He searched them all though, tracking down any overlap at all. He'd also tracked down email accounts for Mary, Harry, and other of John's friends. He'd managed to hack into about half of them and learned nothing. He was finding nothing, so after his disastrous confrontation with Harry, he'd decided to confront Mary. John was leaving no trail so Sherlock was going to forge his own.

Mary Watson's brother exited the front door and climbed into the back of the car. Sherlock watched it go and counted to 200 before he pushed off the wall and headed to the door.

He'd practiced getting into the building two days previous and was thankful that he had. Entry had not been as easy as originally anticipated, but he'd managed it. He'd swiped a master key that would unlock the outer doors and allow him to take the elevator to the top three floors. He'd also disabled the cameras in the lifts by the car park. It would prevent him from being identified later if it came to that.

He took a deep breath as he headed to the side of the building and into the car park. He pulled his collar up, thinking of John making fun of him all those years ago for the gesture. It made him smile and a moment later ache for John's presence. He missed him desperately.

* * *

><p>Mary answered the door before he was ready. Recognition crossed her face and Sherlock knew with certainty that she knew who he was. She did not seem too surprised to see him and he found that disorienting.<p>

He stretched his spine and elongated his neck. He towered over her anyway but he consciously made himself taller. He wanted to be impressive, bordering on threatening. She smiled as she leaned against the door, her face taking on what he assumed was her default greeting appearance.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "I was wondering if I'd ever get to meet you."

She did not seem displeased or even upset. He'd expected the animosity he felt towards her to be reciprocated. "Where's John?" he asked, getting to the point, trying to take control of the situation.

Mary moved her head to the one side, her long, dark hair draping over her shoulder as she did so. A smile crossed her face, one he couldn't interpret and didn't understand. He had the urge to step back, reevaluate, but made himself stay still. She pushed the door open farther and gestured into the flat with her arm.

"Please, do come in. I just put the kettle on."

"Where's John?" Sherlock repeated.

Mary just nodded. "Come in and we'll discuss that." Instead of waiting, she turned and headed down the short hall, leaving the door open with him standing there. He frowned again and followed her, closing the door too hard behind him.

She was very small, even smaller than she had appeared as she got out of the car. She had taken her shoes off and her bare feet made no sound as they moved from the black carpet to the white tile of the kitchen. He followed, noting the large size of the kitchen and the high-end stainless steel appliances around the room. He couldn't imagine simple, unassuming John being comfortable in this room.

Mary stood on her tiptoes and placed one hand on the granite counter top as she reached into the cabinet. Sherlock almost took a step forward to grab the mug himself, but she managed to put her fingertips on it and tip it over. She caught it easily and set it on the counter next to another one. He examined the new addition for a moment before the muscles in his stomach tightened. He could make out the faded RAMC logo on the side, it was John's mug.

"He forgot it when he moved out," she said and he looked up. She was watching him watch the mug. He tensed, feeling self-conscious about being caught up in the nostalgia. Mary smiled at him and turned back to the kettle. "I hope Earl Grey is all right?" she asked.

"Acceptable," Sherlock replied, watching her pour the tea. As she turned with the mugs he reached out, preparing to take the one that had been John's. He was certain that she would try to keep it, claim it as hers, but he was surprised to see that John's mug was the one she was pushing towards him willingly. He accepted it and held it close to his chest.

Mary stood in front of him, and blew across the rim of her mug before taking a tentative sip. She swallowed it, appearing to savor the taste for a moment, or perhaps the warmth before she looked back at him.

"Let's go to the living room," she said and turned. He followed her through the kitchen and the dining room and to the oversized living room. It was huge, at least half the size of the Baker Street flat, and very tastefully decorated. He wanted to hate it but found that he could not. The carpet was black, like in the hall and the oversized furniture a light grey, suede or microfiber he couldn't tell immediately. There were a collection of newspapers, files, a laptop sitting on the mahogany coffee table and an empty spot next to the window. He suspected his chair had been there. Mary had not bothered to rearrange the furniture to account for the empty space.

She settled in a large chair and gestured for Sherlock to sit on the couch. Microfiber, he determined, running is fingers over the soft material. It was amazingly comfortable. He pulled a red throw pillow out from behind him and set it on the floor. Very comfortable indeed.

There was a white blanket over the arm of her chair and Mary settled it over her legs as she curled up. She stared at him for a second before turning the telly on. Sherlock turned to it and was impressed and was annoyed that he was impressed. It was huge, and the picture quality was astonishing. The newsreader looked like he was sitting in the room with them, minus the fact that he was actually the size of a giant.

Mary muted it and dropped the remote into the chair beside her. "I apologize, but the American market is closing soon and I need to keep an eye on it." Sherlock nodded and watched the financial information scroll across the bottom of the screen. It truly was an area that he knew nothing about.

He sipped his tea, the smooth taste indicating that it was a very expensive. John didn't like expensive tea, Sherlock had tried to get him to expand his palate but it had never worked. John liked the kind his mother had made. He glared at Mary across the room. He was tempted to tell her, point out that she was wrong. But he did not.

"Tell me where John is," he demanded.

She smiled as she shook her head. "No." She said the word so easily and without hesitation. The finality in her voice stopped him short. He momentarily felt that he could not argue with her, that the conversation was over.

"You don't know," he said.

She sipped her tea and shrugged her shoulders. "Fine," she said. "I don't know."

Sherlock studied her, watched the brown eyes that didn't waver from his. She did know, he suspected. He was not certain though; women could be difficult.

"I need to speak to him."

"I'm sure that you feel you do, but I don't believe he wishes to speak to you."

He huffed and straightened in his seat. "I can explain my actions. I need to see him."

Mary smiled and sat her tea down. She looked kind, sympathetic even. She didn't hate him, and he didn't know why. She nodded, thinking to herself, deciding on something and met his eyes again.

"He said that you talked already, that you tried…"

"Did he tell you that we had sex?" He spat the words at her, frustrated at her calmness. He saw something cross her face - pain - and he felt victorious.

She looked away and nodded her head. "Yes," she whispered. "He told me." Something sank in Sherlock's chest. He was disappointed that John had told her. John had shared their secret.

Mary took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Listen," she started and met his eyes again. "I believe you genuinely want to talk to him. I think you did what you thought was right."

"It _was_ right," he interrupted.

She nodded. "That's debatable," she said holding up a hand to stave off his argument. "But I understand why you think so. But you need to understand why he doesn't."

Sherlock frowned, he hadn't considered that really.

"You hurt him," Mary continued, anger entered her voice for the first time. "You- you…" she trailed off, looking away for a moment and taking a deep breath. He saw it then, the anger not just in her voice but in her body. She was suppressing it, hiding it from him, but it was there.

"When I first met him, he was sleeping on his sister's couch. He was avoiding most of his friends, quit his surgery job, and was miserable. I worked so hard-" She stopped, her voice catching. "I worked so hard to get him to go out with me." She chuckled out a laugh and relaxed.

They were quiet for a minute. "I was trying to save his life," Sherlock said, annoyed that he was defending himself to this woman, but doing it anyway.

"I know," Mary said after a second. "I know."

She brought her hands up and dug her palms into her eyes, then dropped them back to her lap.

"He was so lost, he missed you so much. I thought it was admirable, an amazing loyalty. Then I found out who you were and that you killed yourself. It made more sense then. No one else believed in you, everyone thought you were a fraud. We'd talked about it once. I'd pointed out something in an article." She reached for the tea and just held it in her hands. "He was so angry with me. He- I thought he was going to end our relationship then." She took a sip of her tea, remembering. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably. He didn't like that she had memories of John that he did not have.

"He'd have these nightmares," she continued. "Terrors would be more accurate I think. He'd be falling, trying to get to you before you hit the ground, believing that if he did you'd be okay. That he could stop it, save you. He never could though. Sometimes someone would stop him from following you, hold him back. Sometimes he'd fall and just not be able to catch you.

"He'd wake up screaming, flailing his arms and legs as he fell. He punched me once just as he woke up. I was wrapping my arm around him, trying to wake him up, and he thought I was the one holding him back. It didn't hurt really, but he was devastated. He slept on the couch for a week."

Sherlock's stomach churned, and he was quietly thankful that he had not eaten anything. He could picture it so clearly, John and the guilt. That was John, his John, human to a fault.

"I need to speak with him," Sherlock said, almost pleading with her. He saw the determination in her eyes and knew she was going to give away nothing. The spark of anger ignited in his stomach again.

"If our positions were reversed what you do?" she asked. The question was simple enough but it shut down his brain for a moment. He had been unprepared for it. "If I had hurt him and wanted to know where he was, would you tell me?"

_Of course not, _he thought but managed not to voice it. Of course he wouldn't.

He stared at her, his insides swirling into a ball. He was certain he was going to be sick, but he would not do it here. He would not do it in front of her.

He thought of John, the way the small body had felt on top of him. Being handcuffed to him and running through the streets of London. Listening to girlfriends break it off because he had chosen Sherlock over them. He always chose Sherlock.

"I can make him understand," Sherlock said. "He will forgive me." He said it with certainty and wanted her to know it too. John always understood him, always. When he found John he would convince him.

Her face fell a little and she nodded. "I have no doubt of that." He frowned, it wasn't what he expected. "He loves you too much," she said. "He's John," she added.

She understood, and her understanding made him think the he didn't understand. Perhaps she was mocking him; he shifted on the couch and evaluated her. "You hurt him, Sherlock." He noted the familiarity but said nothing. "You hurt him and given the chance he'd let you do it again. He's loyal, devoted to a fault. He'll follow you anywhere and I don't know that you truly appreciate that."

"I always appreciated John."

"And yet you lied to him. You let him watch you die, you hurt him and don't seem to regret it. You don't seemed concerned with anything accept alleviating your guilt. You don't appreciate how important you are to him or just how much pain you caused. He died too, that day. Your death killed a part of him. But unlike you, he won't be so miraculously resurrected. I don't know that he can be the man he was before you di- before you left."

"Tell me where he is," Sherlock said sitting on the edge of the seat. His chest was tight and he wanted to leave. Guilt he knew, she was right there. He felt guilty, he needed to find John so it would go away. He would feel better and John would feel better.

"I can't," she said.

"You won't," he spat.

Mary laughed. "Semantics, but the outcome is the same."

"You're jealous!" he exclaimed, standing and jabbing a finger at her.

She smiled again, not flinching at his movements. "I am," she replied honestly. "Absolutely. That's irrelevant, though, and has nothing to do with my decision."

"Of course it does! You fear I'll take him away from you."

Mary chuckled, her head tipping back. There was no humor in her eyes and she shook her head. "You can't take him away from me," she said simply, taking a sip of her tea. "You truly don't get it, do you?"

Sherlock stiffened, confused. Mary waited, watching him for several seconds before smiling at him again.

"You can't take him away from me, Sherlock, because he was never mine. He never stopped being yours." Sherlock stomach sank and his heart leapt, the conflicting sensations made his head spin and he closed his eyes.

"He was yours," she continued, "and you threw him away…"

"I saved his life," he snapped, a renewed sense of anger swelling inside of him. John was his, Mary knew that. She admitted that. She would not keep John from him.

"I saved his life. What would you have done? Would you have risked him?" He tossed the words at her and watched her pause, and then she smiled. He realized in a flash that she'd been waiting for the questions, expected them.

She shifted in the chair and sat back. "I'd have done the exact same thing you did," she said with ease. "I might have told him sooner than you did. But if there was a chance, if I even thought there was a chance, I would have stayed gone. I would have let him think I was dead."

He stared at her, shocked. "And if our situations were reversed, you would do the exact same thing I am. You'd protect him as best as you could. You'd hope like hell that he'd never feel that pain again or be that heartbroken again."

Sherlock collapsed back into the seat and glared at her. She was right, again. He looked at his hands, noted they were shaking and again wondered if he was doing the wrong thing. He wondered if he should leave John alone.

"Think about that for a while. Think about what's best for John," she said and he looked up and met her eyes. Mary shrugged and pushed the blanket off her legs. She walked past him, mugs in hand, heading towards the kitchen.

"I love him," he whispered, realizing the truth in the words just as he said them. He knew she'd stopped without looking over his shoulder. "I want him to be happy. I was happy that he found you, I thought he was happy."

"I think he was, almost, for a while. As happy as he could be anyway." She sighed and he turned on the seat, looking at her back. "I," she started and shook her head. "I think you should leave," she said. "I- I just think you should go. Try Harry maybe. He might have told her."

"If he did she's not revealing the information either," he said. Mary nodded and walked away. After a moment Sherlock followed her, watched her rinse the mugs and dry them both. She stared at the RAMC one for a moment, cradling it in her hand before taking a deep breath and holding it out to him.

"Take it," she whispered. He did.

He closed his fingers around it and accepted it. He felt the smooth porcelain and thought of all those years that John had used it. She wouldn't look up at him and he was surprised. The vibrant woman who'd answered the door looked defeated as she stood in front of him now. He imagined that he looked very similar.

He examined her hand resting on the counter and watched her fingers curl against the smooth surface. He took a step back, the urge to leave coming to him again.

"When you find him," she said her voice barely above a whisper. "Promise me- promise me you won't hurt him again."

An ache moved through his chest and he understood it was for her. He loved John, the idea was easy now, so obvious that he should have known before. He loved John, and he suspected that she was the only other person in the world who understood that because she loved John, too.

"Promise me," Mary continued before he could speak, looking up at him then. There were tears in her eyes, but no sadness. Desperation and anger, but no sadness. "Make him happy. No one deserves to be happy more than he does."

Sherlock nodded, his fingers tightening around the mug. Her brown eyes shone as he took another step back and turned away, heading towards the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade looked around at the buildings surrounding him. He was reluctant to leave his personal vehicle unattended in this neighbourhood. Over the years he'd found Sherlock in worse places, but the idea of John living here was truly startling. It was quite a downward step from the million pound flat he'd been living in with Mary.

He looked at the keys Mrs. Hudson had given him. He was choosing to ignore that Sherlock had keys to a building he wasn't actually supposed to be living in. He was choosing to ignore the fact that Mrs. Hudson had to slip Sherlock tranquilizers got get him to sleep long enough to 'borrow' them from him. He was choosing to ignore a lot. She'd been desperate when she'd called him, and seeing Sherlock asleep on her sofa, Lestrade understood why. He looked almost nothing like the well fed, well rested man who'd walked into his office five days ago. He was skeletal with dark bags under his eyes. He hadn't seen Sherlock look that bad in years.

He glanced up and down the street; there was no apparent threat to his car so he crossed the road and entered the building. He rolled his eyes as a collection of teenagers bolted out of sight as he walked in. It was never good when a teenager could recognize a cop at a glance. He walked up and down the hallway, looking for the lifts before giving up, slapping his hand on the railing, and climbing the stairs. A woman spotting him halfway down turned and started to climb again.

He pushed into the flat, closed the door behind him, and stopped dead. He expected chaos, a mess, but not this. Every available surface was covered with papers; they were taped or pinned to the walls, strewn about the floor. There seemed to be some sort of organizational system, but it would have taken him years to figure it out. There were different coloured pen marks and giant circles with arrows drawn across multiple pages.

Lestrade stood shocked for a moment before walking up to the grouping of papers nearest him. There was a page with phone numbers next to a page with IP address. There were several of each with questions marks next to them and it appeared as if Sherlock was going through, marking them out as they proved incorrect.

Lestrade walked to the bed and picked up a series of grainy black and white photos. They were CCTV photos from inside a train station, Paddington, he thought from the background images. Based on the sheer number of people it was during a rush hour. There were several people circled, only the backs of their heads visible. They all might have, perhaps, been John, but none of them were obviously so. He sat the stack of images back on the bed only to see another group, almost exactly the same, sitting on the small counter. Lestrade realized with a flash of horror that Sherlock was tracing each of those images through the station and either onto a train, onto the tube, or out the door.

"Jesus," Lestrade said, dropping the photos. "It's fucking madness." The only thing that wasn't a disaster was the chair. It had a large box, a mug, and a skull sitting in it. "Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade said maneuvering over the papers and towards the door. He paused, pulling his phone out and snapping a few quick photos. He didn't need to see any more - it was as bad as he'd ever seen.

He started down the stairs, dialling Mrs. Hudson's number.

"What do you need from me?" he asked.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was leaning against the side of the car next to the chauffeur. He'd never met the man before but they'd become easy enough companions. He hadn't been too surprised to learn the Mary had hired a chauffeur in the short time she and John had been separated. He'd watched his friend live way beyond his comfort level and he'd always suspected that Mary was living way below hers. They'd compromised for a while though.<p>

He'd liked them as a couple - he suspected most people did - but he wasn't surprised when it ended. He doubted the life of luxury was ever going to sit easily with John. Nor would dinner every night at seven and weekends in the country with his billionaire father-in-law. John was a surgeon but he was a soldier too. He was more comfortable among Lestrade and the working class blokes than he'd ever been among the bankers. Lestrade had liked Mary though, he didn't think it was possible not to. She just wasn't entirely the type of woman for John Watson. Perhaps if Sherlock hadn't died, or disappeared, or whatever the business was, it would have been different. She contrasted with the consulting detective very nicely.

But then again, if Sherlock had stayed alive his and John's relationship would have deepened. Lestrade had seen that, Mycroft had seen it, and so had Mrs. Hudson. It was the two men involved who'd been slow catching on.

And now, now he didn't know where they stood other than one was missing and the other was on the verge of going mad. And he was once again caught having to pick up the pieces left in the wake of Sherlock Holmes. He smiled to himself; he'd missed doing it, just a little.

Mary stepped out of the door and spotted Lestrade straight away. Her steps sped up and the smile faded from her face.

"Greg? Is there something wrong? Has something happened?" The concern was genuine and she held her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the setting sun. He straightened and shook his head.

"Not exactly, but I need to talk to you if you have a minute. It's important or I wouldn't have come."

She nodded, but stared at him for a minute. She looked him up and down and then nodded again. She dropped her head and looked away. "Sherlock," she whispered and turned to meet Greg's eyes again. There was no anger in her face, or anything really. Just a resigned idea that they were going to talk about something she had no desire to talk about.

"Do you want to go back into my office or can we talk while we ride?" She pointed to the car.

"Whichever works best for you. I can take the tube back from your flat no problem." She nodded again and the chauffeur opened the door for her. She climbed in and Lestrade followed. He pulled his phone out and brought up the photos and handed the device to her.

"What's this?" she asked. He could see knew though, or at least had a very good idea.

"I'm going to ask you to tell me where John is."

Mary scrolled through to another picture and her lips pressed tightly together, almost disappearing on her tiny face. She shook her head as she scrolled to the next picture.

"That is the flat where Sherlock is living, if you can call it that. Those papers contain phone numbers, IP address, tube tickets, and CCTV footage. He's asleep now, probably for the first time in days, and only because Mrs. Hudson drugged him."

"This is at Baker Street?" she asked, confused.

"No," he answered. "Shadwell - it's the flat John was living in before he left. Sherlock is, for lack of a better term, squatting there."

Her eyes shot up, meeting his for a second before looking back at the phone, and finally back at him. "This is where John was living?"

"Apparently," Lestrade said, glad that he wasn't the only one surprised by the overall conditions. She looked back at the phone and rubbed a hand over her face.

"I knew he was in South London, but he never mentioned it was a slum. He can afford much nicer than this. Why was he staying there?"

"No idea," Lestrade said, "but I'll happily ask him if you tell me where I can find him. This is killing Sherlock - literally this time. I think we both know that John wouldn't want that either."

"No. He wouldn't." Mary stared at a photo another minute before handing the phone back. She slumped in the seat and leaned her head back. None of this could be easy one her, he knew, but she was stronger than she looked.

"Where is he now?" she asked, not moving.

"Mrs. Hudson's," he answered.

"Matthew," she said. "Turn around and let's take DI Lestrade back to his car. I need to get something out of my office."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied and changed lanes immediately.

"I hope John can forgive me for this," Mary sighed.

* * *

><p>Mary Watson stood outside of 221 Baker Street and frowned. She saw Lestrade's car parked there and wasn't overly anxious to interact with a crowd. Mrs. Hudson's saddened expression would be too much to deal with and she had no desire to see Lestrade again. Or Sherlock for that matter. She hoped he'd be asleep, but then she didn't want to leave the information with Mrs. Hudson either. She needed to give it to Sherlock and Sherlock alone, although she didn't really understand why.<p>

Probably because she secretly hoped that he wouldn't use it. She hoped that knowing where John was would be enough and perhaps Sherlock would honour John's wish to be left alone. At least that's what she thought John's wish was - she had no idea really. Perhaps he wanted this dark horse to ride into town chasing after him. Mary admitted, only to herself, that she'd never met the John Watson that had lived here, that the John Watson Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson knew and loved. She was certain of that now. It made her heart ache but it also explained a great many things. It certainly alleviated her guilt at the collapse of her marriage.

Mary climbed up the stairs, the plain envelope in one hand. She reached out to hit the bell but stopped when she realized the door was already ajar. She pushed it slightly, expecting there to be people in the hall, but it was empty. She frowned, closing it behind her and hearing mumbled voices from Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Sherlock." Mary made out Mrs. Hudson's pleading and frowned; it meant the detective was probably awake from whatever drug she'd slipped him. And as if on cue the deep baritone drifted through the wall.

"You drugged me! I've lost hours now, HOURS!"

Someone else – Lestrade, probably – mumbled something that Mary couldn't make it out.

She took a step towards the door, working out a plan in her head. They'd open it she'd shove the envelope in and head out the door. She couldn't be a part of this anymore. She didn't want to have to deal with these constant intrusions into her life. She wanted to start moving on with her life, start getting over John Watson. She would give them the information and get out. It was a sound plan and she took another step towards the door but stopped suddenly, the stairs catching her eye.

She'd never been up them. John had talked about it, but Mary had never seen it for herself. She frowned. She shouldn't, she knew that. But she was positive that the opportunity would never present itself again. Besides the door was probably locked. She'd just climb the stairs, find a locked door and come back down. At least she would have tried. She looked back towards Mrs. Hudson's door hearing the continuing argument on the other side. She turned around and climbed the stairs.

The door, much to her surprise, was not locked. The handle turned and she pushed it open, stepping into the infamous flat. It was stuffy, and she resisted the urge to go and open a window. It was larger than she'd expected. The wood creaked under her feet as she walked and Mary cringed, hoping her footsteps wouldn't be heard downstairs. She walked through the living room, examining the contrasting wall papers and the empty book shelves. She had no problem picturing the flat when the two men had lived it. A room covered with random stacks of paper and the various experiments Sherlock constantly worked on. There would be tea cups and something crap on the telly.

The place had the eclectic feel of _John_. It was warm, that deep seated warmth that John had. Mary had never met anyone else with it and it was what had first attracted her to John. She felt it the flat and wondered if John had left it behind or if this had been the true source of it all along.

She could see John living there. He would be completely happy within these walls.

Mary looked into the kitchen - tiny in comparison to hers - and smiled. John belonged here, she knew that. She suspected she had always known.

She turned, intent on heading down the stairs, but stopped abruptly. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, watching her curiously. She hadn't heard him on the stairs, hadn't heard the wood creak under his feet.

His clothes were rumpled, his hair a curling mess shooting in every direction. He was trying to be intimidating again, his posture straight and stiff. She wasn't frightened by it, not even remotely. He looked sad, she thought, and she felt a wave of sympathy for him.

Mary held the envelope out to him. His brow creased and he stared at it for a minute before taking it from her.

"You know that he's fine, don't you? You know that you just can't find him?" Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Imagine if you thought he was dead. Imagine if you'd thought that for three years."

He stiffened, the envelope crinkling in his hands. She knew there was no harshness in her words, she didn't feel angry or hurt. She just wanted it to be over with.

"Sleep first," she said. "And eat something. You look like hell. You don't want to show up like that. Just- just think about what I said and remember what you promised me."

After a moment Sherlock nodded, his eyes locked on the paper in his hand. Mary grabbed his arm as she walked by, giving it a quick squeeze, and let herself out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock parked in front of the gate. He could not see house from the road but knew approximately where it was; he'd seen the satellite image online. He stepped out of the car, his fingers fumbling as he closed the door. He rested his hand on the roof and stared at the gate. His heart was slamming against his ribs. He took a deep breath and held it, trying to stave of the panic running through his veins. It didn't work.

His legs were wobbly underneath him as he took the first step and he locked his knee to prevent from stumbling. He managed to take a few breaths calming the hammering in his chest. He closed his fingers around the cold metal of the gate and flipped the latch. The previous few days of rain had collected mud at the base and he had to pull hard to force it open enough for him to slip through.

Sherlock turned back to the rental car, pushing the button to lock the doors. He probably could leave to doors open and everything would still be in the car a week from now, but he'd lived in London too long to risk it. He pulled the gate closed behind him, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk up the drive. The breeze coming in from the Celtic Sea was cold against his face and he wished for a moment that he'd brought his scarf.

Sherlock could smell the salt in the air, feel the odd texture of the wind that came off the water. He knew John would love it here; John loved the water.

Sherlock emerged from the small wooded area that lined the property and into the open. The small cottage was suddenly visible. He stopped for a minute looking at the small structure where John had hidden from him for almost two weeks.

It looked like John, Sherlock determined immediately, looked like a place John would call home. A place where John could have a wife and kids and normal life. The thought made Sherlock frown - it was the type of place he'd hate long term. The type of place he'd grow bored with,- well perhaps not if John was with him, but in general.

There was a small vegetable garden to one side, obviously not newly planted, but it appeared as if John was maintaining it. Sherlock could see bright red tomatoes and several vines that looked like beans. The domesticity of it didn't surprise him. He had no problem imagining John spending hours outside meticulously caring for plants - or animals for that matter.

John was different from him in so many ways.

He started walking again, continuing up the drive to the small red front door. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breaths were short and too fast. He was nervous, he realized, and afraid. He couldn't remember experiencing the emotions so strongly before. The fear of John refusing to see him, of sending him away was terrifying. He knew that if John asked him, if John meant it, he'd go. He'd walk away and leave John behind.

The thought made his stomach churn. Walking away from John three years ago had been relatively easy because it had been solely to protect him. Even knowing the outcome, knowing the ending, Sherlock would do it again. John was alive because of it and John's life was all that mattered. If it cost him John's friendship or whatever this thing was between them then he'd live with that, it would be the hardest thing he'd do, but he'd do it.

He'd spent three years without John and it had taken less than twelve hours for the doctor to reassert himself in Sherlock's life. Sherlock sighed, his hand shaking as he knocked on the door. The sound echo through the small house but he heard no movement. He knocked again spreading his palm across the door and leaning his head against the cool wood.

It hadn't occurred to him that John would not be home.

He stood for a moment, listening to the wind through the trees, and straightened. He looked to each side, noting the trimmed bushes to his left and the line of roses to his right. They were already buds appearing on the recently trimmed stems.

He walked towards them, the grass soggy under his shoes as he stepped off the small porch. He glanced at the windows but all the curtains were closed - he could see nothing. He walked around the side of the cottage - there were no windows there but there was a newly installed gutter and freshly dug flower bed. Sherlock wondered if part of John's lease involved house maintenance. John was a surgeon, liked working with his hands, it made sense.

Sherlock turned the corner to the back of the house and noted the window first. He took a step towards it, wanting to see inside when a movement distracted him. He looked past the window and noticed a small elevated deck at the back of the house. It was decorate by an iron table with a glass top and a closed umbrella shooting out of the middle of it. Sherlock's first thought was that the umbrella made no sense; this close to the sea the wind would be too strong to ever open it. His second thought, which stilled his heart and made his breath catch, was that John was sitting at the table.

Sherlock took a step, reaching out, the urge to touch overwhelming. He wanted to touch John, hug him, kiss him. His lips twitched with the desire, the desperation. He took another few steps and John's temple flexed as his jaw tightened.

It wasn't a surprise, John had been expecting him. The wooden slats creaked under his weight as he stepped onto the porch but John didn't turn.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, not daring to move any closer.

John was wearing an oversized grey hooded sweatshirt with a navy blue shield on it, a giant AIK across it. Sherlock searched his memory and came up with a football club, Stockholm he thought. He frowned. John has always rooted for West Ham, shunning other teams' attire at every opportunity. It was alarming to see him wearing something else. It was so unlike his John.

John had a coffee mug in his hands, steam blowing off of it in the breeze. He was angry his body stiff. John's head pushed to one side stretching the muscles, the tension was causing the shoulder to hurt. Sherlock wanted to reach out, massage the pain away.

"Mary called me," he said, finally looking up, his blue eyes vacant. "She said she told you, said I should expect you. She said Lestrade brought her pictures. He said you weren't eating or sleeping."

Sherlock wasn't completely surprised. Mary had no loyalty to him, only to John. "I didn't go to her," Sherlock said, knowing that he had to explain that he wasn't the one who had manipulated John's wife. John might not forgive him for anything else at this point, but he certainly wouldn't forgive him for bullying Mary. "I mean I did see her. She gave me your mug and we talked. She said she wouldn't tell me anything. I knew that she wouldn't." He took a deep breath. "You know how insufferable Mrs. Hudson can be when she thinks someone isn't eating correctly."

John nodded, still tense. "I suppose you weren't sleeping either?"

"No," Sherlock answered truthfully. "I was searching for you. Phone records, internet records, anything really. I was desperate to find you, but I didn't expect them to interfere. In fact, Lestrade had all but declared that he would not. I was surprised to see Mary again."

Sherlock glanced to the other chair and John gestured towards it. Sherlock's fingers settled on the cold iron as he pulled it out and sat down. He shivered as a particularly strong gust swept over them and John held out the coffee mug. Sherlock took it, sipping the bitter liquid and letting it fill him. The thought that he was sharing a mug with John was not lost on him; it warmed him.

"You were gone," Sherlock said after a moment, turning his attention to the large expanse that was the back garden. There was a fence to their left. He could not see it, but on the other side was the sea. He doubted there was a navigable trail to the water but on the satellite image the property had gone right to the edge.

"You were gone first," John said, stretching out in the chair. His body relaxed slightly and Sherlock relaxed in response. "And then you were back and it scared the hell out of me."

Sherlock nodded and took another sip of the hot coffee. He held it out to John and watched the doctor eye it for a moment before accepting it. Sherlock watched every step, the lips on the mug, the Adam's apple moving as John swallowed, the hand setting the cup on the table between them where either of them could grab it.

"That was never my intention." Sherlock paused and waited until John turned to him. His blue eyes were no longer vacant but a swirl of emotions that Sherlock could not follow. It scared him, but he continued anyway. "If you want - really want - I'll go away again. But I want you to tell me. I want to see it."

John's eyes held his for a moment, the emotions forming into one solid feeling for just a fraction of a second. Sherlock saw it - the flare of anger and pain directed solely at him. Almost hatred. His breath caught as the emotion disappeared and John turned away.

The doctor let out a half chuckle and brought a hand up to rub over his eyes. "I think we both know I can't do that. A part of me wants to. Part of me never wants to see you again." He spit the words out and they ached through Sherlock's chest. "But it's a small part, the rest of me oscillates between euphoria and devastation, neither of which want to drive you away."

"But you left," Sherlock said, not exactly overwhelmed with the warmth coming off of John. He wasn't sure if he believed him. He wasn't sure John really wanted him to stay.

John sighed, glanced at Sherlock and then back out of the garden. A gust of wind ruffled his blond hair and Sherlock wanted to straighten it, reach his hand up and put the stray hairs back in place.

"It was the hardest thing - well no. Burying you, knowing you were dead and there was nothing I could do about it was the hardest thing I've ever done. Climbing out of that bed and leaving you alone was the second hardest. Harder than war, harder than getting shot, harder than recovering."

"Then why-" Sherlock started.

"I had to," John snapped. He grabbed for the coffee. "I had to," he repeated a moment later, quietly. "I was so happy and so angry and so sad. I felt like I was drowning and I had to- I had to get away from you. I needed, I don't know, space, I guess. Or perspective maybe would be a better term."

"Did you find it? What you needed?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

John's face distorted in deep thought for a moment and then he shrugged. "I don't know."

Sherlock watched him for another minute. The wind howled through the trees and John shivered as it cut through the sweatshirt. Sherlock's arms twitched but he kept them still. The need to touch John ached through him, but not yet. Hopefully soon.

"I wanted so much for it not to be true, Sherlock. I want so much for you not to be dead, but I saw it. I watched you. You let me." He paused and Sherlock didn't speak; he suspected John needed to finish this. "I wallowed forever over you. I just kept thinking you'd walk in the door because you couldn't be dead. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead, but you were. I _knew _it. I _watched_ it. Finally, I finally managed to let you go. I started dating Mary and spending time with my mates again. I moved on, but barely. Losing you almost killed me. I- I thought about suicide for a while."

Sherlock's head snapped around opening his mouth, but John held his hand up. "I wouldn't have done it, but I thought about it. But it was all for nothing. Here you are." John turned and met Sherlock eyes. "You're here and you're fine and I went through all of that for nothing. You were fine the whole time. I understand that you think it was necessary, but part of me actually wants to punch you, hit you until you're bleeding. I want to make you hurt. So what now, Sherlock? What do we do now?" John held up his hands for a minute. "And that's ignoring the fact that I'm technically a married man and I've cheated on my wife. What does that say about me, Sherlock? What does that say about us?" He gestured between the two of them with his hand.

"You're divorcing," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, we are, but I'm not divorced. I cheated on my wife and I have to live with that. I hurt a woman who in no way deserved it. She has never acted with malice in her entire life. You need to know that and understand that. I hurt her because of you, maybe _for_ you." Sherlock looked away, John's devotion to Mary sending a wave of jealousy through him.

"So, what now? Do we go back to the way we were, two single blokes running around solving cases? Is that what you want?" Sherlock shook his head. "Do you want to move forward with a relationship? Be a couple? What about when it gets boring? What then? Do you just move on? Leave me again?"

"No," Sherlock interrupted again. "Never. You could never be boring." A smile touched the corners of John's lips but Sherlock could still see the doubt in the blue eyes. "I- Moriarty is dead. The man who was going to kill you is dead. I can't foresee circumstances that would willingly make me leave again."

"What about unwillingly, Sherlock? That's what scares me. I buried you once and barely survived it. The thought of having to do it again makes panic, not just for you, but for me. Every survival instinct that I have is telling me to run away because you can't hurt me if you aren't here."

"John, I can't promise…"

"I know that. I know that there are no guarantees, but—" John took a deep breath and looked back at the garden. Sherlock watched him for a moment before reaching across the table and closing his hand over John's arm. Blue eyes darted down and Sherlock saw the flinch of panic but John didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

John turned again, his eyes shining. All of the emotions coalesced and Sherlock could see them, understand them. He could see John. After a moment the doctor nodded, pulled his arm away, and stood. He moved to stand in front of Sherlock and the detective pushed himself to his feet.

Sherlock's heart ached for John as it started pumping in his throat. Sherlock hadn't been asked to leave and he considered that a huge victory. But he could also see the cost for the victory reflected in those blue eyes. The price that his only friend, his so-much-more was having to pay for it. He cupped John's face and ran long thumbs over solid cheekbones. John closed his eyes and Sherlock leaned down touching his lips against John's.

John opened for Sherlock immediately. Tongues darted out, brushing each other before pulling back. It was soft, but only for a moment. John pressed up, standing on his tiptoes and forcefully pushing his lips against Sherlock's. The detective groaned and stepped into John as skilled surgeon's fingers fisted against his sides. The edges of his thoughts dulled and his mind started to shut down. Sherlock wanted it, he wanted it desperately. He knew he'd never tire of this man. That he'd stay with John as long as John would consent to his presence. He also knew it wasn't right. Sherlock pressed his fingers into John's cheeks and gently pushed the doctor away.

There was a quiet groan of protest as John's feet flattened and the blue eyes opened to meet his. Sherlock brushed his thumb over John's cheekbones again. Sherlock could see the unasked question on John's face and smiled sadly. "You aren't sure," Sherlock said quietly. "I want to but only if you are certain. It won't be beneficial to either one of us if we continue and then you decide that you're unable to forgive me."

John nodded and turned his head slightly, planting a kiss into Sherlock's palm. The sensation shot up Sherlock's arm and through his body but he did not react. John's hands fisted against Sherlock's waist again, pulling lightly on the material before letting go. John took a step back and Sherlock let his arms drop.

"I understand that there is a small inn between here and the vill-"

"You can stay here," John said his voice sharp again. Sherlock's heart swelled but he prevented the smile from forming. "There's only one bedroom, but there- I mean we'll work it out."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N – I want to that Scopestastic on this one, well on all of them, but on this one in particular. She constantly listened to my complaints when I couldn't make it work and then threw ideas at me and made it all better. You are awesome, Thanks!

* * *

><p>John turned onto his side and adjusted the pillow under his head. He deliberately didn't glance at the clock because he didn't want to know what time it was. He didn't want to know how long he'd been lying there thinking about the man who might or might not be asleep in his living room.<p>

It had been well after 1 a.m. when John had cut Sherlock off and announced he'd needed to go to sleep. He'd spent hours listening to Sherlock recount every detail of the three years that he'd been gone – from tracking down the men who'd been going to kill Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to infiltrating Moriarty's underworld and finally stumbling upon Moran, the worst of the group, the one who'd been hired to kill John.

"He was rather arrogant," Sherlock had said. "He didn't hesitate to speak about Moriarty or being hired to wait in a stairwell to kill you. I had it all recorded – along with his admitting to several other murders, included a rather prominent assassination. I was prepared to turn it over to Mycroft, Interpol, and the American authorities when he was killed." Sherlock had hesitated then and for a moment John was certain that Sherlock had killed Moran. John could clearly picture Sherlock throttling the man, but, as Sherlock continued, John could see the disappointment on the detective's face. He regretted that he hadn't been the one to kill Moran or bring him down.

"He was involved in a relationship with the wife of a Russian gangster linked to a number of organized crime syndicates in America. Moran often bragged about not being afraid of them, and it appears that was an unwise decision."

"You're sure he is dead?" John asked, feeling a chill down his spine. Sherlock had held his gaze for a long moment and nodded.

"I wouldn't have returned otherwise," he replied. "As I said, you're the reason that I did all of this."

Something had welled in John's chest at the words but he'd listened for a few more minutes before declaring he needed to sleep.

He'd offered Sherlock the bedroom but the detective had declined. "I'm not ready to sleep. It's less likely that I'll disturb you if you're in the bedroom." John had agreed and there was an awkward moment as they stood in the living room facing each other. John had finally reached a hand up and settled it on Sherlock's chest. The warmth of Sherlock's skin was palpable through the silk of his shirt and John curled his fingertips into the smooth material. He looked up, met the grey eyes and saw absolute want there. John reacted to it, the desire spreading through him as well.

He'd taken a deep breath and pulled his hand away. "Good night," John had whispered into the quiet space and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He'd done anything but sleep though.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He could make out the faint pattern from a long ago water stain in the corner. He had paint under the counter in the kitchen to paint over it. He'd pulled it out to paint three days ago when Mary had called him.

"I told him. Greg came to me, and Mrs. Hudson said– it doesn't matter really. I told him. He knows where you are." John had been able to hear the fear in her voice. She was afraid he'd be angry, afraid he'd be unable to forgive her.

"It's okay," he'd whispered to her, hearing her gasping breath through the phone. She'd been on the verge of tears. "It– it doesn't matter. It's fine." And it was as he said it that he realized it was true. The feeling that swept over him in those quick seconds wasn't anger or annoyance, but relief. He was relieved.

He rolled on his side, getting lost in the mix of shadows on the far wall of the room. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind blow against the window, the glass rattling quietly. He thought of Sherlock in the living room, where windows were even older, and had a flash of guilt – he should have insisted Sherlock take the bedroom. Especially as it seemed John wasn't going to sleep anyway.

He shifted again, punching the pillow as he closed his eyes determined to find sleep soon. He'd slept in a hole in the sand in Afghanistan with bombs going off around him, surely he could sleep in a comfortable bed in Cornwall.

_We both could have slept in the bedroom. _

John opened his eyes. "No," he said into the silence. "No." He shook the thought away and shifted on the bed.

_Counting sheep_, he thought and closed his eyes. He tried to picture vague white fur balls jumping over a fence. Why do people always picture them going over a fence? Sherlock would know. Sherlock. John tried to shake away the image of him lying on that small single bed in Shadwell. It was about the same size as the couch he was sleeping on now. Although, he assumed that Sherlock was clothed this time.

John been unable to get the image out of his head: the long leg pressed against the wall, the knee poking out from under the blanket. John had stood in that dark room and watched Sherlock sleep for a long time. Each of Sherlock's quiet breaths stealing oxygen from the room. John had been suffocating, dying. He'd had to leave, had to.

Sherlock had lied, and not about what caused a stain on the carpet or what happened to John's black silk tie. He'd lied about dying. He'd gone away and left John alone. John had been dying then, too, from the nothingness. Life had been so empty. He had been so empty.

Sherlock had been on his back as John had stood in the doorway, his head resting on the pillow where John's would have been had he not climbed out. The light blanket formed nicely over the slim body. John had easily traced the outline of long legs and the slight bulge where the flaccid cock had rested against slim thigh. He'd taken a deep breath and walked out of the room, walked away from Sherlock, but the image had never left him.

He'd thought of that body every single day. He'd thought about Sherlock every single minute.

John sighed and sat up, pushing the blankets down and tossing one of his pillows onto the floor.

He wondered what it had felt like to wake up in that small flat all alone. Sherlock had gone to bed thinking things were the same as before – better than before actually – and he'd awaken to John gone.

It must have been horrible.

It was Sherlock's own fault though; he'd brought the misery on himself. John had been miserable for three long and horrible years. He'd married woman and ruined her life, been unable to feel settled or safe or at home. It was all Sherlock's fault. Every single second of it had been Sherlock's fault.

But he'd saved John's life, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Sherlock had walked away from his life, his friends. He'd watched from a distance as everyone moved on. John wondered which was worse, thinking your best friend was dead, or watching your best friend think you were dead and move on without you.

John thought his plight was the worst but he was willing to acknowledge that Sherlock's hadn't been easy. He'd been all alone.

John had been alone all those years ago when he ran into Mike Stamford in the park. The memory of that day was so clear to John – it always had been. You don't forget the day that changed your life forever; you don't forget the day that saved your life.

Sherlock had saved his life theday of the fall, too. John closed his eyes and watched the fall. He'd watched it thousands, tens of thousands of times over the last three years. He saw it when he was awake, when he slept, when he travelled past Bart's in a cab. Every day. He'd watched Sherlock _not_ die every single day.

"He should have told me," John whispered. He looked towards the door that hid the living room that Sherlock currently occupied. "You should have told me," he said, just a fraction louder. Sherlock couldn't hear him, even if he'd been standing at the door the words would get lost in the air between John's mouth and any listening ear. Still John said it; he said what he couldn't get past. "You left me," he added, closing his eyes against the oppressive darkness.

And he had left Sherlock, he realized. It was different entirely – he knew that. He'd left that man, that wonderfully beautiful man, alone in a bed because he was scared, because the emotions were too strong. Sherlock had left John to save his life. Sherlock had left because he'd valued John's life more than his own. John sat up again looking around the room before rubbing his palms into his eyes and letting out a quiet groan.

"What do you want?" he asked himself. And the answer appeared in his head as easily as anything.

Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock. He shook the idea away. It had been too much, entirely too much hurt. He couldn't move on. He couldn't just forget it. He couldn't. It wasn't possible.

But it wasn't about forgetting, it was about forgiving. He looked up at the ceiling. It was about forgiving. Could he forgive Sherlock? He shook his head – no of course not, not for this.

John took a deep breath and looked at the clock. 4:49. He groaned and looked at the window.

Sherlock had left, but so had John. The circumstances were entirely different, the seriousness of each hardly comparable. But Sherlock had acted out of compassion; John had acted out of fear.

And Sherlock was alive. How often had John wished for just that? How often had that been his only desire?

He turned towards the door again and nodded firmly, pushed the blanket off of his legs and climbed out of bed.

* * *

><p>He'd expected Sherlock to be awake because Sherlock was always awake. There was a small lamp in the corner casting odd shadows about the room. John could see the outline of everything, including the body obviously sound asleep on the sofa.<p>

Sherlock couldn't be comfortable. He was still dressed, minus his shoes, which were placed neatly next to the door. The pillow John had given him had slipped to the floor and the detective's head was hanging off the sofa, his long neck stretched back as quiet snores escaped slightly parted lips. John smiled, stepping carefully over the arm that was resting on the floor, and sat down on the coffee table. He let his eyes trace over Sherlock's other arm, resting above his head and draped over the arm of the sofa. His fingers were curled slightly, the tension gone from all the muscles. John reached over traced his index finger across the visible tendons in the wrist. Sherlock's fingers closed reflexively and his head shifted. John smiled as he stilled his finger and Sherlock moved slowly back into the previous position.

When the snores returned, John pulled his hand away and stared at the sleeping form. His heart ached and his lungs constricted. He felt like he was drowning again. John took a deep breath and held it, released it quickly and then gasped in another one. He closed his eyes and forcefully calmed himself.

_So beautiful_, he thought opening his eyes to look over the long body stretched out on his couch.

John pushed a dark curl away from Sherlock's eye, took a final deep breath, and made up his mind. His chest ached again and he calmed his breathing before it became frantic. He stared at Sherlock's sleeping form another second before standing and heading to the kitchen to get a pad of paper.

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><p>A dull throb in Sherlock's neck pushed him to wakefulness. He lifted his head back to the sofa and blinked his eyes open. The sun was starting to creep across the carpet towards him as the day began. It was still relatively early though. He grabbed the pillow and pushed it under his head again. Sleeping had felt good – even after Mary had relayed the information on John, Sherlock had not slept well. He'd slept some, but not well.<p>

He shifted onto his back, annoyed that his trousers were twisted around his waist and becoming uncomfortable and even more annoyed that he hadn't bothered to remove his clothing before falling asleep. He pushed the thoughts away; he'd deal with his discomfort when he was feeling more inclined to be awake.

He turned his head towards the sofa cushions, his brain quickly processing what it had seen in the few seconds his eyes had been opened. The majority of these thoughts were immediately deleted, but the image of the piece of paper on the coffee table caused his eyes to snap open. He turned his head and looked at the table.

The sheet was folded in half and he could make out his name written clearly. He stopped breathing for a moment, panic filling his chest. He tried to listen to the house, tried to hear John. But the only thing he could hear was his heartbeat slamming in his ear. He tried to look around but his mind saw nothing but the paper.

John was gone again. The thought swelled in Sherlock's throat as he reached out a tentative hand and touched the cool page. He traced his name before bringing his thumb around to lift the sheet up so that he could see the note's contents.

_Sherlock, _

_I'm going to have a lie in. Join me. _

_Love, John_

"Love, John," he said into the silent room. Sherlock glanced towards the bedroom door and then back at the note. "Love, John" he whispered again as he set the page aside and stood up.

John was curled on the far side of the bed. Sherlock stared at him a moment before quietly pushing his trousers down and quickly following them with his shirt. He looked at his briefs for a second before kicking them aside. There was a pair of dark pyjama bottoms sitting on the bed. He stared that them a moment before recognizing them as his own. He looked around the room and spotted his suitcase in the corner. At some point John had walked to the car and retrieved it. The closet door was open and Sherlock could spot some of his clothes hanging neatly beside John's. The sight caused and odd stirring in his body that he couldn't identify. He smiled at them before grabbing his pyjamas and pulling them on.

Sherlock moved to the side of the bed and froze. He felt a well of something unfamiliar in the back of his throat and reached down to touch the sheet in front of him. The thread count was very high and the dark blue material made John's skin glow in the faint morning light. It was momentarily perfect and it terrified him. He hadn't done or felt any of it before, not really.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at John's back. "You think so loud," came the familiar voice and Sherlock jumped back, startled. John turned his head and pushed the blanket back. He tapped his hand on the mattress and met Sherlock's eyes. "Get in," he said easily before settling back into his pillow.

Sherlock paused just a moment more before climbing in and rolling so that he was facing John. Long fingers stretched out and rested on John's hip. The doctor's skin was warm through the material Sherlock pressed his fingertips against the bone. He wasn't pushed away, so Sherlock slide his arm forward letting it fall across John's body. When that was accepted, Sherlock shuffled forward and pressed his chest against the smaller man's back, burying his face into the space between John's neck and the pillow, and John wove their fingers together against his stomach.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N- So,yeah, um, basically, this is doing it. If that isn't your thing move on. :o)

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><p>John rolled on his back, feeling the eyes on him before he was fully awake. He smiled and stretched, opening his eyes to see startling grey ones watching him.<p>

"Hi," John whispered and long fingers came down to brush through his hair.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, watching his fingers move on John's head for a moment before a curious look crossed his face. John studied it for a moment. He remembered seeing it many times on cases or while Sherlock had bent over a table working on experiments. Curiosity, John had always labeled it — or perhaps mild surprise.

John shifted onto his side, drawing the detective's eyes back down to him. The expression changed but there was still something in those grey eyes that interested him. The doctor brought his hand to Sherlock's cheek and brushed his thumb over the stubbly chin.

"What?" he asked. One of Sherlock's eyebrows rose and he cocked his head to the side.

"Unsure," he said, dropping his hand to John's shoulder. "I've enjoyed watching you sleep and watching you wake up more than I anticipated."

John chuckled and pushed his body closer to Sherlock's. "You like waking up next to me," he shrugged. "That's not an uncommon feeling in relationships."

Sherlock nodded. "Relationships," he whispered and John stiffened. Nothing had been resolved, he knew. They had talked, but there were still things that felt unfinished.

"I'm sorry," John said, brushing over Sherlock's chin again. "I shouldn't have— I shouldn't have left." He traced his hand down and settled in on Sherlock's hip, studying the way his fingers contrasted with Sherlock's pale skin and his dark pyjama bottoms. "I was a coward and—"

"Never," Sherlock said his voice forceful. "Your reaction was reasonable."

John nodded. "And you were doing what you thought was best."

"I'm sorry that we don't agree on this, but it was the only option available to me."

John nodded again, chest tightening at the words, but he did understand. He completely understood Sherlock's motivations, even if he didn't like them.

"Are you certain that you-" Sherlock began, digging long fingers into John's shoulder.

"Yes," John interrupted. "There are things that will take a while, but yes. I'm as sure as I've ever been." He looked up again and met Sherlock's gaze. He didn't know what his face would show but knew that Sherlock would decipher it easily. After a moment the detective smiled and dragged his hand down John's arm, twisting their fingers together at his hip.

"I am sorry. The severity of your emotional reaction was not something that I considered. Perhaps I was unwilling to do so because it would have altered my resolve."

John settled into the pillow and pushed his leg to rest between Sherlock's. "I'm sorry that I left you in Shadwell." He squeezed Sherlock's fingers as the detective tried to stop his words. "No, I need to say this and you deserve to hear it. What happened between us shouldn't have happened." Sherlock stiffened and John quickly expanded his thought, pushing closer to him. "I don't regret it, even remotely. But for my emotional stability it wasn't the best decision. It made me panic, scared me and I fled. It was a cowardly act and I apologize for that. No matter how angry I was it was wrong of me to leave you with only a note. I'm sorry for that and I'm sorry that I hurt you."

Sherlock leaned forward but stopped short of placing his lips on John's. They were still for a moment, sharing breaths before John closed the distance.

The memory of Sherlock's lips had haunted him for two weeks. They'd been the softest lips he'd ever kissed and as he pressed against Sherlock, he confirmed – again — that his memory was horrible. They were like satin, smooth and perfect as John moved against them. The doctor pushed his lower lip between Sherlock's and a hot tongue brushed against it. The sensation shivered through John's jaw and he moved back. Sherlock shifted against John's thigh as the doctor sucked the plump lower lip into his mouth and suckled it. He opened his eyes to watch Sherlock react as he bit down gently. The detective's breath caught and his body tensed. John's action wasn't forceful, he couldn't bring himself to draw blood or even to bruise.

John pulled back and Sherlock leaned forward, trying to keep the contact. His grey eyes were heavy lidded as they opened, a delayed groan of protest escaping from his chest. John untangled their fingers and settled his hand on the small of Sherlock's back before dipping his fingertips just below the waistband as he pushed his hips forward.

"John?" Sherlock questioned as John ducked his head and started kissing along the rough jaw line. "You said our actions in Shadwell were a mistake." Sherlock's voice was hesitant and John had never heard that kind of doubt before. He found it oddly endearing that in this Sherlock was unsure.

"I did," John mumbled into the space where jaw met neck. "We can stop if you would rather wait." Sherlock tilted his head and John darted his tongue against the tendon.

"No," Sherlock started, shifting slightly and dropping his hand onto John's hip. "I want you to be sure—" He trailed off as John sucked on the spot just above his collar bone. John smiled into the contact again, darting his tongue against the heated skin before backing away.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and it seemed he needed a moment before he could open them. When the grey eyes met his, John spoke.

"I want," John said. "I most definitely want." He pushed his hips against Sherlock's thigh, knowing Sherlock wouldn't miss the subtle changes in his cock from just a few kisses and light touches. "I want you if you'll have me, for as long as you'll have me. But if you want—"

"No," Sherlock said, stealing a quick kiss. "God no, we've done enough waiting." He kissed John again, darting his tongue past John's lips to taste. John rolled backwards, pressing his fingers into the detective's back and pulling the long body on top of him.

The sensation of the slim hips settling between his thighs shot through John and he spread his legs increasing the contact. Sherlock curled his fingers into John's hip, holding tight, settling his other hand on John's cheek as he deepened the kiss. Their tongues brushed past each other and Sherlock moaned, his body melting against John's.

Muscles twitched along Sherlock's back as John dragged his fingers down, tracing absent patterns against the smooth skin. He pulled out of the kiss, pushing his head into the pillows and Sherlock smiled down at him, grey eyes aglow in the oddly cast shadows.

"You're beautiful," John whispered as he dipped his hand below the waistband of the pyjama bottoms and grabbed a cheek with each hand. The doctor thrust his hips upwards and Sherlock's head fell to John's shoulder. "Are you hard already?" John asked forcing his hips up brushing against the noticeable bulge.

John turned his head and placed a kiss against Sherlock's ear as the detective nodded. "I was recalling our previous encounter before you awoke."

"Well," John said grabbing Sherlock's ear lobe with his teeth. "We should get on with it then." Sherlock nodded and John grabbed the waistband of the detective's pyjamas and pushed them down. Sherlock waited a fraction of a second before pushing himself up to his knees, dislodging John's hands.

The doctor watched as the Sherlock pushed the material away, not bothering to keep the admiration off his face as he examined Sherlock's nude form. There was a noticeable weight loss from their previous encounter, but it seemed to emphasize the lightly defined muscles in Sherlock's abdomen and made the bones at his hips protrude slightly.

John reached up, placing his thumb in the hollow at Sherlock's hip. He tightened his fingers into the skin and a swell of protectiveness swept over him. Sherlock would gain the weight back, John would ensure it. His eating patterns would have to change. John took in a shaky breath as he traced his eyes over the dark purple cock and up across the torso until he met Sherlock's eyes, quietly vowing that he'd never lose this man again.

Sherlock smiled at him, grabbing the waistband of John's pyjamas and pulling. John chuckled as he planted his feet and lifted his hips so Sherlock could pull the pants down and tossed them away before settling a hand on either of John's ankles and watching.

John could almost feel Sherlock's gaze at it travelled up his legs, the intensity that was usually reserved for dead bodies and crime scenes turned entirely on him. Sherlock was learning, memorizing everything that he could. A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as his gaze moved over John's groin and his cock twitched in response. Long fingers traced up John's leg and he shivered arching slightly as they closed over him.

Sherlock's touch was gentle, hesitant, as he started to pull.

'Experimented' he'd said in Shadwell and that hadn't been expanded on. John reached down and wove his fingers with Sherlock's, tightening the grip and pushing his foreskin up and over the head. After a couple of tandem strokes John let his hand fall away and he moved his hips into Sherlock's fist.

"Yes," John hissed as he throbbed and the first traces of precum leaked out of him. He closed his eyes as Sherlock's thumb collected some and traced roughly down the underside.

"John," the voice above him whispered as Sherlock leaned forward. John sucked in a breath as the warm mouth closed over him. There was no movement, no suction, just the heat of Sherlock's mouth surrounding him.

"Shit," John said forcing his hips up, trying to increase the contact. Sherlock moved with him, putting a hand on John's hip to keep him down and darting his tongue out to brush across the slit. "Sherlock," John groaned as he moved his fingers through the dark curls. The hot tongue darted against him again.

"Jesus," John said as his other hand slammed against the bedside table. He struggled with the handle but managed to pull it open before shoving his hand inside to blindly dig for the small bottle, fingers closing around the cool plastic just as Sherlock's tongue pressed under the head.

John's body stilled, tense and his vision went black. "Unh," he managed trying to give some warning. "Sh—" he tried again as Sherlock backed off completely letting John slip from his lips. "Oh god," John said, collapsing back on the bed, releasing his grip in Sherlock's hair.

"You taste good," Sherlock whispered against John's stomach, placing a kiss there.

John moaned, managing to pour some of the cool liquid over his fingers. He shoved his hands between their bodies and hitched his thigh. Sherlock straightened, sitting back on his heels. John moaned again as he slipped one and then another finger into himself. He scissored them, stretching the muscles. Sherlock's eyes went wide watching John's action.

"I can't quite reach," John said trying to curl his fingers but unable to get the angle right.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered, his body stiffening.

John shoved the lube into Sherlock's hand and gestured towards his cock. "Get yourself ready." Sherlock stared at the plastic bottle and then at John again. John grinned; apparently experimenting hadn't included any sort of intercourse.

John pulled his fingers out and wrapped them around Sherlock. The detective buckled forward, catching himself on the mattress before he collapsed onto John. "We need more," John said brushing his thumb over the tip and watching Sherlock shudder. He used his free hand to pull the bottle out of Sherlock's grip and flicked it open with his thumb.

"That's better," John said, spreading the gel. "Come on." He tugged lightly and Sherlock moved forward. John brought his knees up and positioned Sherlock at his entrance. Sherlock put a hand in the pillow next to John's head and slowly eased his hips forward. The preparation wasn't quite enough and John's breath caught as a stab of pain moved through him. It subsided quickly and Sherlock pushed further, unaware.

Sherlock stalled momentarily as John closed his eyes and arched up, his prostate brushed by the swollen head. "John," he whispered and the doctor heard a hint of concern in the quiet voice. He couldn't respond though — he could use his voice. Instead he closed his fingers around Sherlock's waist and pulled. Sherlock pressed forward before stopping again when his bony hips hit the cushion of John's ass cheeks.

John opened his eyes and his breath caught. Sherlock's face was contorted with something like agony. White teeth were shining as they bit into his bottom lip. John stiffened, concerned, and brought his hand up to cup Sherlock's jaw. "Are you all—" he started but stopped when Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"John," the deep baritone mumbled. John watched as the muscles relaxed and the face collapsed. The already dilated eyes became black pools in a second and John understood. He pulled Sherlock's body down just as the slim hips yanked out and slammed back into him. The force surprised him and he grunted just as Sherlock's sharp inhale brushed over his neck. "Oh god," John heard as Sherlock filled him. John wrapped his arms around his convulsing partner and stayed quiet as Sherlock pulled out a fraction and thrust forward again. Sherlock emptied himself, his body stilled, and his full weight came to rest on John's chest.

John held him, one hand spread across the sweaty back, the other tightly wound in the tight curls. The small quivering aftershocks were leveling out when the mumbling began. John tried to hear the words, but the vibration against his neck caused a shiver to move down his spine to his groin. He suddenly became very aware of his aching erection trapped between their bodies. He felt it twitch up against Sherlock's stomach.

John pulled slightly on the curls and Sherlock adjusted his head. "I'm sorry," John heard and felt a kiss against his jaw. "I'm so sorry. I didn't— I didn't know."

John swallowed down a chuckle — he didn't think it would be correctly received — and pulled on the curls again. Sherlock resisted, from embarrassment, John assumed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." Sherlock's head shifted again and his exhalation breezed over John's nipple. The doctor's whole body stiffened for a minute before he forcefully relaxed. He was aching to finish but wanted Sherlock to be a part of it. He tugged on the curls again and once again Sherlock resisted.

"Look at me, please," John whispered into the soft hair. "Please," he added a few seconds later and Sherlock began to move.

John cringed as the flaccid cock slipped out of him. He felt a twinge of regret at the loss of the contact but it got lost in a wave of sensation as Sherlock's weight lifted and his cock was suddenly free to twitch in desperation. He longed to reach down, quickly get himself off, and then deal with Sherlock. Instead he grabbed Sherlock's arms so that he couldn't move any farther away. After a moment the detective settled, straddling John's waist, his elbows on the pillow next to John's head.

The embarrassment was evident in the flushed cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said again and John didn't bother to hide his chuckle this time. As expected Sherlock looked momentarily mortified and it made John want to laugh harder.

"Don't be," John replied. "I love that you couldn't control it, that you, Sherlock Holmes, couldn't prevent your body from doing something. I'm flattered." He leaned up and placed his lips against Sherlock's, sucking Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth and tried to kiss away the tooth marks his partner had left there. The detective shifted lower, deepening the kiss. The change caused John's cock to brush against the crease of Sherlock's ass and it proved too much for the doctor. He sank deeper into the mattress groaning as his body ached to come.

"I can't," John said trying to reach around Sherlock's body. "Can you, I don't know…" The words 'give me a hand' were on his tongue when Sherlock settled between John's legs and wrapped his long fingers around him again. John closed his eyes and let his head drop back into the pillow. Sherlock pushed the foreskin over the head, holding it there for a second before dragging it back down. The detective's thumb brushed over the exposed head and John arched again, his legs coming off the bed and his toes curling. He reached down to blindly grab at any part of Sherlock but came up empty. He slammed his palm into the mattress and twisted his fingers into the sheet.

"Sherlock," he managed, as the foreskin was pushed up again. As his hand moved back down, John prepared for the thumb, the edges of his mind getting fuzzy at the prospect. He planted his feet ready to thrust just as he felt Sherlock exhale. John realized what was happening and then it was gone. His mind was blank and he was screaming. He thrust hard into Sherlock's mouth as he arched off the bed.

"Shit!" he exclaimed as he erupted into Sherlock's mouth. He felt the sensation of Sherlock's fingers holding him in place in the same instant as the tongue pressed into the underside of his cock and Sherlock swallowed. John squirted again and Sherlock sucked hard as he slowly pulled off of John's cock. With a quiet pop Sherlock released him and John collapsed in a boneless heap.

"Shit," he said again, opening is eyes and seeing Sherlock as if through a fog. The curious look was back, mixed with a gleam that John had always associated with the beginning of cases. Sherlock was interested, truly interested, and was going to learn everything that he could. The knowledge that the subject would be John sent a faint feeling of desire through him, which amazed him considering that his breathing hadn't even slowed down yet.

He reached for Sherlock, wanting to hold him, wrap around him and protect him. "Come here," he said, pulling on the shoulder he could reach. Another smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as he settled on top of him.


	13. Epilogue

The pen was stiff and John tried to focus on keeping his hand from shaking as he signed his name the first time, but managed to level his signature as he signed the rest of the papers put in front of him. He didn't look up or pay any attention to the other people in the room.

"That's it, Doctor Watson," a Scottish voice said and John nodded. He stood and looked around the awkward conference room quickly. Mary was sat across from him, signing the last few of the documents herself. He was sad to see her there; sad he'd ever met her. Not that he regretted it, far from it. She was an amazing woman and he was better because of her, but he'd brought no benefit to her life that he could see. He'd done nothing but cause her pain.

She signed her name the last time and pushed the papers away. She looked up at John and he could see tears brimming in her eyes. It made his chest ache. She stood, grabbed her handbag and made her way quickly around the table. He held the door open for her and she walked past him and into the hall.

"I'm going to Sweden for a few weeks," she said as they walked down the hallway. "It's Farmor's birthday."

"Tell her I said _grattis på födelsedagen_," he replied and Mary smiled.

"Your Swedish is horrible," she teased and he laughed. They were silent as they stood in front of the lifts, waiting.

She entered the car first and he followed behind her. "I think after that I might go someplace tropical. Miami, maybe, or someplace in the Caribbean."

"Good," he said. "Enjoy it." She met his eyes and she nodded. "Be happy, Mary. Please. You-"

"Are you moving back into Baker Street?" she interrupted. He examined her a minute before he nodded, accepting the topic change.

"Yes," he answered, leaning his head back against the wall. "They're doing most of it today. I left Harry in charge so at least everything won't get left in the living room."

Mary smiled. "I know that Mrs. Hudson must be so excited."

"She is," he answered. "She misses you though."

Mary nodded, "Maybe when I get back. I hope it'll…" She trailed off and John didn't say anything.

The lift doors opened and he took a step towards her, cupping her face and watched the tears brim in her eyes again. "I'm sorry," he said as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. He stepped out of the lift and hurried through the building's glass doors, spotting Sherlock leaning against a light post at the street.

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><p>Mary was several steps behind John as he exited the building. She had planned on going back to work, but the thought of that seemed ridiculous now. She thought she might go home instead. Go home, climb into bed, and cry for three or four days.<p>

She was amazed that this hurt so much. She'd known John wasn't coming back, she'd know it wasn't right for either of them. She'd known her marriage was long over, but she hadn't thought signing the papers would be so horrible.

She'd been relieved to see that it hadn't been easy for John either. She felt guilty about it, but she was glad that he had regrets too.

Mary pulled her sunglasses out of her handbag and searched the street for her car. She noticed Sherlock's looming figure against the light post and she stopped walking. She watched John close the distance between them and saw the huge grin cross Sherlock's face.

She couldn't hear the words but the conversation between the two of them seemed easy and familiar. Sherlock said something and John laughed, the booming sound carrying through the air. Mary watched them another second and managed a smile just as her car turned the corner.

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><p>AN – Thanks to everyone who read, favorited, and especially reviewed this. I'd probably write these anyway, but all of you make it so much more fun. Thank you! I have to offer my undying gratitude to Scopesalicious. I thank her all the time, but she truly does deserve a ton of credit here. I'm moody, and she keeps me on track. Thank you my friend.


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